


The Thorny Path

by archipelago



Series: At Seventeen 'verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Best Friends, Broken Up, Friendship, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Moving On, Teenlock, Unilock, Viclock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:13:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 98,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archipelago/pseuds/archipelago
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to my 30 Day OTP teenlock story, <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/865115/chapters/1659608">At Seventeen</a>.</p><p>Sherlock and John have broken up, but their friendship remains intact.  Now, as Sherlock goes to Cambridge, he is faced with new challenges, new dangers, and new loves.</p><p>Story follows Sherlock's POV.  Updated on Sundays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Sherlock BBC.
> 
> Title take from a lyric in Of Montreal's song "Heimdalsgate Like a Promethean Curse:"
> 
> 'though I picked the thorny path myself  
> I'm afraid, afraid of where it leads'
> 
> The song is from the album "Hissing Fauna, Are You the Destroyer?" (yes, all their titles are that obscure and weird), which I have been listening to non-stop while thinking about this story.

“How are your classes going?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and taps his cigarette on the edge of the window where he's pushed out the screen. “I honestly have no idea why I thought university would be different from any other school I've ever attended.”

John's laugh is warm in his ear. “Full of idiots, then?”

“You can't possibly begin to imagine,” He watches the end of his cigarette burn. “Sebastian Wilkes is here.”

“Wilkes got into Cambridge?” John curses. “God, do they let just anybody in?”

There's a large pop of static on the phone. It makes John sound tinny and even farther away. Worse, it keeps Sherlock from hearing the background noise; he wants to deduce John's surroundings, his outfit, his bunkmates. He wants to know if John is sitting or standing or looking out a window. He wants John, generally.

“That is the very point I was trying to impress upon you,” Sherlock tells him drily.

“Fucking Wilkes,” John says. He curses 3.6 times more often than he did before the army. Sherlock did the calculation last night. “Surprised that tosser was accepted anywhere.”

“I miss you,” Sherlock blurts out. He grimaces and stubs out the remains of his cigarette, suddenly glad that John can't see him.

John breathes quietly into his mobile. “I miss you, too, Sherlock.”

There is something in his tone that is strange—it's a bit too tight, too strained. Sherlock frowns as he puzzles over what that means. He hates trying to deduce things from social interaction. He needs more cues, more context. The silence stretches long between them as he ponders what to say next.

Plucking at his duvet, he murmurs, “You know that I still...”

“You still what?”

“You just...know, right? That nothing's changed?”

Another moment of silence, this one far less comfortable. He can hear John sigh. “Sherlock...”

Panic wells up in Sherlock's chest, and he resolutely swallows it down. It's only been two and a half months since John left. They've talked several times per week during his phase two training, since John's allowed use of his mobile. John even wrote him a letter, right after he arrived, detailing everything about the base and his new mates. It was horribly dull, of course, but Sherlock still read every word. He even managed to read all the things that John didn't say—he could see John's stress from the pressure of the pen against the paper, his enthusiasm from his abuse of exclamation marks while describing his marksmanship training...

As close as they've stayed, it wouldn't make any sense for all of John's feelings to have changed. He trusts John, as terrifying as that may be.

“Don't tell me not to say it,” Sherlock replies, “because it's true.”

“I don't doubt that. I just...” John trails off. When he sighs, there is another burst of static. “It isn't fair, to say things like that to me.”

“Why not?”

“'Why not?' Are you serious?” When Sherlock doesn't reply, John plunders on, his voice low, as if he's trying to stay quiet, “We didn't break up because I wanted to, Sherlock. I agreed to it because you didn't want to do long distance, and...God, I'm not blaming you, and it sounds like I am, and I'm sorry. It's just that you can't tell me you want to be just friends and then tell me _that_.”

Sherlock wishes he hadn't got rid of his fag. He thumbs open the pack on the nightstand by his bed, but it's empty. It takes all of his will power to resist the urge to curse. “But...”

“But what?”

“But it's true. It's still true.”

The other end of the line is silent. Inwardly, Sherlock demands that John make noise, do something so that he can have an inkling on what is going on.

“I know it is,” he says eventually, sounding defeated rather than happy.

After another awkward pause, Sherlock frowns. “Are you not going to say it back?”

“Jesus! I just...I can't do this right now, okay? I'll call you later, but I need to go.”

There's the sound of rustling fabric, and a burst of another voice, calling John's name. John muffles the ensuing conversation with his hand—Sherlock hears nothing, and it grates him that he doesn't know what was said. He glares down at the floor.

“I didn't say it to anger you,” he says, staring at his socks.

Another sigh echoes through his mobile, but it's different from the first: guiltier, lonelier. “You didn't anger me, or upset me, and you know that I,” he gives a rueful laugh, “still feel the same. But, _God_ , Sherlock. I wish you wouldn't tell me things like that.”

Sherlock clutches his mobile so tight he can hear the plastic creak. “Why?”

“You have no idea,” John says, “how much I fear the day you stop saying them to me.” Another shout in the background. “I really do have to go. I'll call you soon, okay? Bye.”

John hangs up before Sherlock can say a proper goodbye.

Sherlock falls back on his bed, groaning in frustration as he throws his mobile toward his night stand. It skitters across the top and falls to the floor. Curling into a ball, Sherlock longs for nicotine. It's hard to get cigarettes, though, since he's still only seventeen, and he isn't in the mood to bribe someone from his hall to help him out. He managed to make his usual less-than-stellar impression on them at the beginning of term when he'd deduced that two of the boys with rooms near the stairwell were closeted homosexuals. Since then, he has mostly kept to himself.

It doesn't bother him, of course, as he's used to it. Few people are genuinely good company, anyway. Mostly John. Only John.

John.

He should have never told John he didn't want to do long distance relationship, he thinks as he groans and digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. It had seemed like the right choice, at first. Sherlock knows his faults: his father has expounded upon them at every opportunity since he was seven. He is selfish and he wants what he wants the moment he wants it. He can't stand to wait, he has no patience, he's morbid, he either talks too much or too little and never at any sort of happy medium. He is changeable.

Changeable—and that's the problem. John is off learning how to play soldier, and he doesn't need some half-mad boyfriend back at home, alternately demanding his presence and forgetting his existence while off on some sort of crime-solving rampage. He needs stability, and that is something that Sherlock will never be able to give him. Long distance relationships are hard, or so the internet has led him to believe. He isn't even very good at short distance ones, so he's inclined to trust Google on this.

Sherlock had opposed continuing their relationship because he had not wanted to hurt John. He'd thought he was making the right choice. How was he supposed to know that John's absence would leave a gaping hole inside of him that is so big he can hardly concentrate? It's impossible to ignore, and it never changes or shifts, instead always present in a completely illogical place beneath his rib cage, which doesn't even make sense because emotions have nothing to do with his actual heart, they are just chemicals in his brain, he _knows_ that, and—

The door slams open, and Stupid Oliver walks in. Stupid Oliver is stupid, and Sherlock hates him. It is some cruel trick of the universe that he is not only separated from John, but also forced to sleep nightly in the same room as a ginger idiot who is the only child of too-interested parents (six care packages since the start of term, phone calls home every single night, family photos show him with two adults and no other sibling) and who only got into uni due to family connections (he shares the last name as one of the professors in the Psychology department, probably goes here for free despite being a complete dullard). The other boy's feelings for Sherlock are unfortunately mutual.

“Holmes!” Stupid Oliver shouts moistly, the door closing behind him with a bang. “Did you fuck up the screen so you could bloody smoke in here?”

Sherlock looks over at the screen and then sighs deeply. “It appears that I did. Good observation, Oliver.”

“You're not allowed to smoke in here, you arsehole! You're going to get us both in trouble!” Oliver moves across the room and leans a knee on Sherlock's bed (ignoring Sherlock's look of hatred) in order to poke at the place where the screen is popped out of its frame. “I hope you know you're the one whose going to pay for the damages!”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pushes Oliver out of the way, taking pleasure in the way the other boy stumbles before he finds his footing. He grabs the edge of the screen and pushes it back into place and then waves a hand over it.

Oliver looks suitably abashed. He scratches at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well...we're still not allowed to smoke in here.”

“Should I ever care for your opinion, be assured that I will ask for it,” Sherlock replies. “Until then, do shut up.”

He ignores Oliver's glare and continued rant in favor of flopping back onto his bed and pressing his fingertips together under his chin. Retreating into his mind palace, he thinks of John and wonders why he ever hoped university would be different.


	2. Chapter 2

“I think it's about demons,” says an idiot boy in the first row. “I mean, he's talking about lipless, breastless creatures underground, yeah? What else could it be?”

Sherlock is not sure he could hate anyone more than he hates this boy, whose name he does not know but whose voice he's come to identify by its high, nasal pitch. Its tone is so distinctly unpleasant that Sherlock has so far been unsuccessful in his attempts to delete it. Every time he thinks he's managed it, he attends class and the boy blathers on _again_ , reburrowing himself into Sherlock's psyche. His definition of hell now includes a lake of fire wherein this idiot is forever incorrectly interpreting poetry in his ear.

Dr. Connors, a short, pudgy man with grey hair, smiles tightly. “Well, I'm not sure Eliot is being abstract here—after all, there are actual, breastless, lipless things underground.” He raises his brow at the boy in the first row. “Any ideas?”

“What,” the idiot says, “you mean like snakes?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. The girl next to him sends him an amused glance as he raises his hand. Dr. Connors looks relieved to see someone else participating.

“Ah, yes. You in the back. Mr. Holmes, isn't it?”

Sherlock drops his hand. “Yes, sir.” Before he can think twice, he announces, “The young man you're talking to was a bed wetter until he was sixteen, did you know?”

The classroom goes silent. Everyone turns to stare at the boy in the front row, who slides down in his seat. He does not turn around to face Sherlock, but the back of his neck turns bright red; he can only imagine the kid's face. 

At the front, the professor stutters as he tries to find his tongue. “I—I'm not sure how that's—I'm sure that isn't—”

“Oh, trust me. It's true. I'd explain how I figured it out, but _God_ , trust me when I say you don't want to know the clue that gave it away. He also has some masturbatory fantasies that the rest of us would find surprising—some very kinky kinks. Auto-erotic asphyxiation, if I'm not mistaken. He likes to—” 

The boy stands abruptly and dashes from the room, leaving his school bag and books behind in his haste. Everyone's laughter follows him out the door and into the hallway. The professor raises his arms up, flailing them about as he tries to quiet everyone down.

“Mr. Holmes!” Dr. Connos seethes. Now that the annoying idiot has fled, he seems to have recovered himself. “I want you out of this class immediately!”

“With pleasure,” Sherlock replies. He stands and gathers his notebook, text, and pens, shoving them all back into his bag. When he throws it over his shoulder, he notices that the girl to his right—the one who smiled at him earlier—is now glaring at him.

“Fuck you,” she mouths.

For the first time since he opened his mouth, Sherlock feels something other than satisfaction. He doesn't know this girl—he doubts he ever will—and yet her judgment of what he just did makes him uncomfortable. Should he feel bad for making an idiot feel like an idiot?

He looks away from her, back at the professor. “The creatures underground—the ones that that fool thought were demons or snakes? They're skeletons, you morons.”

With that, he storms out of the room.

–

A half-hour later, he sits on a park bench, determinedly ignoring his phone.

Mycroft has been texting him non-stop, chiding him for his outburst in class. Sherlock isn't even sure how his brother already knows about the incident—he probably paid off someone in each of Sherlock's classes to watch out for his little brother. The series of texts lets him know that the boy (whose name is apparently Colin) has locked himself in his dorm room and has already contacted his parents about dropping out of university.

Which, strictly speaking, seems like a good idea. Every time Sherlock has been forced to endure Colin's insipid opinions, he's wondered how the boy managed to learn to dress himself, let alone how he got into Cambridge. If he stays, he'll struggle and likely flunk out—he'll embarrass himself, his family, and the university. In some ways, Sherlock's saved everyone involved a lot of time and money.

He thinks of the way Colin's neck turned red with embarrassment and wonders why he doesn't feel worse about it.

God, Sherlock wishes he could talk to John.

His text alert goes off again, and he can't help but groan. Mycroft usually gives up after a few missed messages; he is apparently feeling very persistent this morning. Huffing out a sigh, Sherlock shifts on the bench in order to pull his mobile from his pocket.

The name on his screen is a surprise. He smiles.

_Talked to Johnny last night. Told me to tell you he's sorry he hasn't called, but that he's been busy. He sounds as though he's doing well. --Mrs. Waston_

A flood of relief washes over Sherlock as he reads this text once, twice, three times. 

He hasn't heard from John in about two weeks, since Sherlock confessed that his feelings had remained constant. The silence hadn't seemed strange, in the first few days; after all, John had trainings and drills. It wasn't unusual for there to be gaps in their communication. However, as one week had passed without a call, and then another, Sherlock had started to fret. He's barely been holding it together ever since.

He hasn't been obvious about it. He still goes to class and actively ignores all the overbearing texts his brother sends. He plays his violin whenever he knows Oliver plans to take a nap and very rarely sleeps or eats. Indeed, his routine, however odd, is just that—routine. Class, ignoring Mycroft, annoying his roommate, staying up too late, never visiting the dining hall, class, ignoring Mycroft...

Lather, rinse, repeat.

On the inside, however...

Well, it might explain his recent outburst in class. In the three months since Sherlock has been at university, he's talked to John at least once per week, often more. When he'd confessed that his feelings hadn't changed, he'd expected John to return the sentiment—or at least be happy about it! John had said he'd come back for Sherlock. Shouldn't he have known that meant that Sherlock would be waiting?

The quiet lull in their communication has been eating at Sherlock, rubbing his nerves raw. After weeks of waiting and hearing nothing, it's no wonder that he was ready to verbally eviscerate the first person to offend him.

People and their emotions are tedious, Sherlock thinks. Even his own annoy him. He fiddles with his mobile, contemplating his reply, before typing out: _Thanks, Mrs. W. Hope you're doing well. SH_

It is nice to hear from the Watsons. They text occasionally. Harry sneaked her mother's mobile and called once, as well, which was—awkward, honestly, but also rather cute. Sherlock would rather die than admit it, but he misses them. John's family had been warmer to him during the brief tenure of their friendship than Sherlock's own had been in his entire life.

Someone's dog barks as it speeds across the quad, breaking his chain of though. Sherlock looks up, intending to glare and perhaps rain down another verbal tirade, when his mobile buzzes again. He glances down.

_No problem. I expect a visit out of you next time you're in London._

He smiles at his screen. _Of course. SH_

It's not quite like hearing from John, but it will do for now. Just knowing that John's thought of him throughout the past two weeks—it's enough to soothe him, make the rest of the world fall away. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine that it's four years in the future, and John is on his way home from the army and Sherlock is nearly finished with uni and they are—

The pain is intense and unexpected. Sherlock drops his mobile and barely registers the fact that it clatters to the ground. He is more preoccupied with the terrier that is determinedly gnawing a hole through his Achilles tendon. Kicking his leg to dislodge the little beast does nothing—the monster holds on with tenacious ferocity.

“Lulu! Lulu, _stop_!” A blond man runs up and grabs the dog by the haunches, pulling it away. The animal tries to take Sherlock's ankle with him.

“Fucking hell!” Sherlock cries out. “Stop, you imbecile! You're making it worse!”

The man drops the dog's legs and moves to its mouth, which still has Sherlock's ankle firmly in its grasp. He grabs at the terrier's jaw, commanding, “Drop it!” over and over. He delivers a swift tap on the dog's bottom, and it miraculously works. Lulu, whose name does not hint at whatever sort of _demon_ the dog must be, lets go of Sherlock and jumps back into her owner's arms. There is blood on her muzzle.

“Oh my God,” the owner of the pet from hell says, clutching the dog under his right arm and pressing his left hand to his mouth. “Oh my God, that looks _terrible_.”

The dog used Sherlock's tendon as a chew toy; his ankle is a mangled mess. He is not typically squeamish, but the blood pouring down over his shoe makes his stomach churn. His entire foot is throbbing. “Yes, thank you, I'm aware.”

The blond man just stands there, dumbfounded, and Sherlock feels his anger rise again. “Do you plan to just sit there and gawk at me? Would doing something helpful be too much of a stretch? Call for help, call animal control!”

Shaking out of his reverie, the man—student, in his third year at least, dating a girl who lives in the dorms as evidenced by her student ID card hanging out of his front pocket, _this is not time to deduce, Sherlock_ \--goes for his mobile. As he brings it out, however, he pauses. “Animal control?”

“Your bloody animal attacked me! Someone ought to be controlling it, if you won't!”

The man winces. “I'm—um, I can't do that. I will...I'll call campus security, alright? And then I'll—“ He hedges away.

“You're leaving me here?” Sherlock's jaw drops. He tries to stand and drops back onto the bench, eyes tearing as pain flairs up his leg. “You can't just—“

“I swear, I'll find you later, okay? But for now, I'm just going to...” The man shrugs helplessly, starting Lulu off on another barking fit. He hesitates, and for a moment Sherlock thinks he might stay, do the right thing. Instead, he clutches the dog to his chest and puts his phone to his ear, then turns and bolts away.

Sherlock reaches down to the ground for his own mobile. The screen is cracked where he dropped it, and it won't turn on. If that bastard hasn't called for help, he's stranded until a class lets out. He groans and bites his lip, trying not to think too much about the sharp pain of his ankle.

A moment later, an overweight security officer comes jogging up. He throws an arm around Sherlock's shoulders and helps him limp to the health services building, where the head nurse pours him into a chair and sets about prodding at him.

“What kind of animal was it?” she asks, wincing in sympathy as she lifts his leg into the air to inspect the wound from all angles.

Sherlock opens his mouth with every intention of telling the nurse about the demon Yorkshire terrier named Lulu, probably owned by some idiot girl who has secretly had the dog in the dorms for weeks. She's not on campus, currently—out of town? Not enough data to know. Either way, she's asked her upperclassmen boyfriend to care of her illegal pet while she's away. He'd need her ID to access her building, which is why it was in his pocket. The deductions also explain why the dog didn't obey his commands despite being familiar enough with him not to fuss in his arms, and why the man would abandon him there when he obviously knew he shouldn't.

As Sherlock opens his mouth to lay out his observations, Colin's face inexplicably appears before his eyes. He remembers Colin crying on the phone to his parents because of something Sherlock had said simply because he was bored and angry and lonely and looking to hurt someone. Something uncomfortable twinges deep in his chest.

If he tells, both that idiot and his girlfriend will get in major trouble. It wouldn't be that hard to find them. Sherlock could do it in less than an hour, so normal people could probably manage it in a couple of days. They might be required to put the dog down; no great loss, as far as Sherlock is concerned, but they probably love the stupid monster. 

He swallows, frowns. Perhaps he's done enough damage, for one day.

“It was a fox,” he says, meeting the nurse's raised brow with a straight face.

“A fox? I didn't think we had those just milling about campus.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Neither did I.”

The nurse hums in a way that shows she does not believe him. “Well, maybe we ought to take you to hospital, let them give you a rabies shot. Just in case, you understand.”

She's trying to bluff him into telling the truth. She's good, but he's better. “I've been immunized, thanks.”

“Right,” the nurse says, clearly put out. “Well, let me grab some bandages and we'll get you all cleaned up. I have some crutches you can borrow for a week or two.”

Crutches?

He should have ratted on that anonymous bastard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to sureaintmebabe for looking over this for me. :)
> 
> And thanks to YOU for reading this! Please leave me a comment and let me know what you thought.
> 
> The poem that they are talking about during Sherlock's literature class is TS Eliot's [Whispers of Immortality](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/236778).
> 
> Come say hello at [my tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com/)!


	3. Chapter 3

Crutches. For a _dog bite_. How embarrassing! He feels as delicate as a Victorian heroine from one of those stupid novels that everyone's required to read in secondary school. Sherlock tried to talk his way out of them before the nurse left the room, but she assured him that they were a necessity.

“That _fox_ ,” she'd raised a dubious brow, “really did a number on your tendon. Best to keep off of it for a week or two, at the very least.”

Sherlock suspects that she's only doing this because she knows he's lying about the animal that attacked him, but she has no obvious tells. She's either far cleverer than he originally suspected, or she's telling the truth. She left him on an open bed in an empty room five minutes ago in order to go find the crutches.

His only relief is that John is not here to witness his humiliation, although he's sure that Mycroft, the interfering git, will somehow manage to snap a photo and text it to him. Of course, John seeing said text is dependent on him picking up his mobile ever again, which is starting to seem less than likely.

Sherlock pushes that particular thought out of his mind.

There's a knock against the door jamb, but when Sherlock looks up, it is not the nurse, as he expected. Instead, the blond man from the quad is there, this time without a dog. He winces under the force of Sherlock's glare.

“I, um,” he closes the door behind him and leans against it. “I found you. I mean, I figured you’d go to Health Services, and—“

“Stop talking.” The man is babbling, and Sherlock hates babbling. It reminds him too much of what he no longer has.

The blond shuts up immediately. It’s the first thing that he’s done during their short acquaintance that Sherlock appreciates.

“I did not turn in you or your girlfriend's dog, although God knows why not. You’re safe. When she gets back from her trip, she'll be none the wiser. Now,” Sherlock sinks back into the pillow at the head of the bed and stares at the ceiling, “go away.”

There is no tell-tale sound of a door opening and shutting, no footsteps growing steadily fainter. Turning his head, Sherlock is annoyed to see that the young man with the horrid dog is staring at him in shock. He seems too surprised to move, which will not do at all, as Sherlock wants nothing more than for him to leave.

Fortunately, he is rather skilled at making people do just that.

“Stop gaping—it makes you look more idiotic than you already do. Everything I just pointed out was plain to see. You have a girl's student ID hanging out of your front pocket, yet you are both male and too old to be living in the dormitory. Why would you need that, then, unless you needed to get into a girl's dorm and she was not there to let you in? Therefore, she's likely not on campus and has not been for a few days. And why would you need into her dorm room? The dog.

You have pet hair on your shirt from where you picked it up, but not on the bottom of your trousers. You're not around the dog enough for that to happen, so it probably isn't _your_ dog. It also doesn't obey you, despite your familiarity with it. You're just taking care of it for someone—the girl whose ID you possess. It also puts your actions after that little monster attacked me into perspective: you didn't want to get in trouble or have the dog taken from you while she was gone, so you ran. Am I right?”

He expects anger. After all, Sherlock has been deducing people for several years, and so far the list of people who have enjoyed his observations consists of one person. He predicts that this anonymous young man’s shoulders will tighten, his mouth will pinch into a sharp straight line, and he’ll throw out some careless insult before turning and stalking away. Sherlock will get his crutches and limp for a little while and then one day the only thing he’ll have is a scar on his ankle and the blank space in his mind palace where this idiot was deleted.

Instead, the stranger steps forward and holds out his hand. “I’m Victor,” he says. “Victor Trevor.”

Sherlock does not take it.

“And?” He asks.

The proffered hand hangs listlessly for a moment longer and then drops back to Victor’s side. He shifts on his feet.  “I’m just—I’m really sorry about running off. I feel shit about it.” He notices Sherlock roll his eyes again and quickly adds, “No, really! I just panicked. Lulu isn't mine, like you said, and Lindsey would murder me if she came home and found her dog gone. ” Victor flushes red. “Thank you so much for not turning me in.”  
From his position on the bed, Sherlock watches Victor carefully. He shows no obvious signs of lying: his eye contact is direct and sincere, his posture is relaxed, his manner honest and open. It's so strange, so unexpected, that he can think of nothing to say, and the pair of them stare at each other for a tense moment.

Victor breaks first. “So, um. I want to make this up to you. I know I can't actually _do_ anything about your foot, but could I buy you dinner? Or maybe carry your books to class? _Something._ I feel awful.”

“Are you doing this because you think I'll turn you in now that I know your name?”

That has to be it—there has to be something. He could easily get Victor's girlfriend in trouble, and so the other man is just trying to cover himself. But there's something in his eyes—large and blue and utterly sincere—that unnerves Sherlock. He's not used to people looking at him like that. Like he's...human.

“I'm—God, that didn't even occur to me. I'm being serious. I just want to apologize.” Victor frowns, face heavy with guilt. He runs a hand his blond, curly hair. “I acted terribly. Heat of the moment and all that—I'm not good under pressure, never have been. I'm sorry you got hurt, and I--”

“Mr. Holmes?” The nurse shuffles in, shaking a pair of crutches at Sherlock. “Found some crutches for you. Come on now, up you get.”

She grabs Sherlock under his right arm and hauls him into a standing position. Once he's stable on one foot, she shoves the crutches beneath his armpits. “There. Will your friend help you to get back to your dorm?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to state that Victor is _not_ his friend, but the other man finds his tongue more quickly. “I'd be more than happy to help him.”

The nurse smiles and reminds Sherlock to come back in a week to have her check his stitches. She hustles from the room, leaving the two boys in awkward silence.

“So,” Victor attempts a cheerful smile, “how do you feel about pizza?”

–

“--and then Lindsey gets this call telling her that her sister's been in a car accident, so she has to leave suddenly, right, and she sends me this desperate text asking me to watch Lulu.” Victor shakes some garlic salt over his slice of pizza and takes a bite. “I know she needs to be with her family, but that damn dog is such a nuisance.”

“Why didn't her roommate just take care of the dog?”

“Lindsey's roommate left three weeks into the semester. Couldn't hack it, I guess. It's the only reason she's been able to keep Lulu at all.”

Sherlock picks at a breadstick, trying to discreetly stare at his table mate. Although Victor had to practically bully him into going to dinner, the evening has not been unbearable. Victor's told him all about his major (Business, because “who the fuck knows why, it was my Dad's idea”) and his classes and his girlfriend. He's hardly stopped talking since they sat down. It started because the older man was uncomfortable—the fidgeting in his seat, the nervous edge to his babbling—but it's continued even as Victor has relaxed.

There's something nice about the steady stream of conversation. It reminds him a bit of John and his own incessant monologuing.

Sherlock swallows down a piece of food that sticks in his throat and frowns.

“God, I've talked far too much. Tell me about yourself, Sherlock. Your first year here, right?”

“Right.”

Victor smiles at the deadpan tone Sherlock uses. “Not enjoying it, huh? Well, don't worry. You'll adjust and classes will get easier.”

“If that happens,” Sherlock declares, “then I'll die of boredom.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” The older man gives a sage nod. “Proper genius, then? Not surprised. That stuff you picked up on about me—brilliant. I mean, a little unnerving, but just brilliant. How do you notice that kind of stuff, anyway?'

It's difficult, but Sherlock manages to hide his surprise. People who have encountered his deductions usually only want one thing—to see him prove it, by deducing someone else or themselves. The former causes delight—sly grins as they luxuriate in knowing someone else's secrets, all winks and suggestive elbows. The latter is why he was always so alone before John.

Well, except for Sebastian, but he hardly counts. He has deliberately avoided Sherlock at every given opportunity since they both started at Cambridge. Not that Sherlock cares—he'd rather be lonely than in poor company. But that's part of the marvel that is this conversation with Victor: calling deduction “a little unnerving” is the nicest thing someone's said to him about his skills in a long time.

“I just look at people,” Sherlock shrugs. His ankle throbs painfully under the table; the paracetamol that the nurse gave him hours ago has almost completely worn off. “I put together the visual cues that I see in order to come up with a conclusion about the individual I am observing.”

“How did you learn to do...whatever you call it?” Victor gulps down some water and heads in for another slice of pizza, but his eyes never leave Sherlock's face.

“Deduction, and it was innate. Or, at least, partially so. I've always been able to do it in some form, although I have worked to sharpen my abilities in the past few years.” He smiles a bit. “I've even solved a few private detective cases. Did you hear about that Star Trek ship that was stolen from the convention last year? It made some of the papers.”

Victor's jaw drops. “I did! My roommate last year was a fan of the reboot movie they did a few years back. Did you help recover it?” When Sherlock nods, Victor stares in awe. “That's—I mean, wow. That's incredible!”

No one has called him “incredible” since John left. Sherlock misses someone thinking him incredible.

It's stupid, of course. John is irreplaceable. Victor isn't as good as John—he's not quite as smart, and he's too sincere, and he very recently abandoned Sherlock after letting his dog attack him. At the same time, it's nice to talk to someone who knows what he can do and doesn't seem to think that it makes him a psychopath. He just wants a friend, and Victor...doesn't seem opposed.

“It was really simple. The police only missed it because they're staffed entirely by idiots.”

Victor laughs too loud. A few customers turn in their seats and stare, but he seems entirely unaffected by the attention. “Alright, then. Go on.”

“Go on and...?”

“Tell me more about myself!” He rubs his hands clean on a napkin. “I'm curious as to the types of things you can pick up.”

Sherlock shifts in his seat. “I've already done you. What about another person here? That lady by the window, or--”

“How will I know if you're right, in that case?” Victor cuts Sherlock off before he can even open his mouth. “And don't tell me I'll know because you're always right.”

Sherlock fights back a sigh. It's a shame—he likes Victor more than he's liked anyone else in a long time. His friendships so rarely survive his intelligence, and he considers just getting up and hobbling away. His arms and his ankle are still killing him, however, and it doesn't seem worth it to try and run. Sooner or later, Victor would have realized that he is strange, anyway. Really, deducing the man across from him will save them both some time.

With a sigh, Sherlock does a scan of Victor's person. Neat hair, sculpted brows, tan—fake tan, his palms are slightly orange. Heirloom watch on his wrist; he fiddles with it when he's nervous, as evidenced by the fact that he's touched it three times since he noticed Sherlock glance at it. Stylish and put together. Very modern. The watch is anomalous, implying sentiment.

“You have a difficult relationship with one of your parents—more likely your father. You constantly seek out his approval, even if it means changing yourself drastically.”

Victor gapes at him and circles his watch around his left wrist. “...how?”

“You're a closeted homosexual who is in a relationship with a girl because you don't know how to tell your father you're gay.” Victor goes white and Sherlock continues on. “You're trendy, you use a home tanning lotion, and I have excellent gaydar. Everything you're wearing is the latest fashion except for your watch. The watch is antique, and therefore likely given to you by someone close—a parent. These things are typically handed down father to son. You play with it when you're feeling anxious, which means you associate the watch with someone or something that unnerves you. More likely than not, it's the person who gave you the watch. So, you're a gay man who is dating a woman and whose father makes him nervous, therefore....” Sherlock waves a hand in the air, referencing his previous deduction. He finishes up the monologue by taking a sip of his water. “I'm sorry.”

Inwardly, he screams at himself. He could have said anything, anything at all, and left this table with—if not a friend, then at least a friendly acquaintance! Pain flares up his leg as he shifts his foot, and he glares at his crutches. Tact is never his strong suit, but he's even worse when he's in pain. At least, telling himself that makes him feel slightly less miserable.

Across the table, Victor sits in silence. He is quiet for a full minute before he says, “Just don't tell anyone, okay?”

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

“About my being...well, you know. My father is a bit old-fashioned, and if he finds out...” Victor looks up at him with those same big, blue eyes. There's something in his gaze that makes Sherlock feel guilty. “I'm going to tell him one day, I _am_. I just need some time.”

“Does your girlfriend know?”

Shaking his head no, Victor plays with the edge of the tablecloth. “We're not very serious or anything. She cares way more about Lulu than me, so I figure there's no harm in it.”

Silence reigns again, and Sherlock reaches for his crutches. He pushes himself up onto his good foot and winces at the soreness under his arms as he puts the crutches into place. From his seat, Victor stares at him in surprise.

“Where are you going?”

Pausing, Sherlock says, “I thought you'd want me leave you alone.”

“Why?” Victor's brow crinkles in confusion. “You didn't tell me anything I didn't already know, and besides—I asked you to do it.” He motions to the table. “Sit down, finish your dinner.”

Sherlock stares. “Really?”

Although not as sunny as some of his previous smiles, Victor still manages a grin. “Not used to someone taking it well, huh?”

“I made a kid in one of my classes cry earlier today.”

“What on earth did you say?”

Sinking back into his seat, Sherlock shrugs. “I may have mentioned to the professor that the person to whom he was speaking was a chronic bed-wetter until his late teens who had a particular fondness for auto erotic asphyxiation.”

Victor chokes on a breadstick, alternately coughing up a lung and laughing himself to tears.

–

Five hours later, Sherlock's mobile has a new number in it. Victor texts him throughout the evening after dropping him off back at his dorm; every time Sherlock hears his text tone, he nearly jumps out of his skin. When it rings (at nearly midnight, fat Oliver throws his pillow at Sherlock in frustration), he is even more confused.

“Hello?” Sherlock picks up and then drops his voice to a whisper, padding out into the hallway.

“Sherlock!” John shouts into the phone. He's so loud that it makes Sherlock wince.

“John? Why are you awake?” There's a burst of giggles in his ear. “And why are you drunk?”

“I was talking to the boys,” John says, as if this explains anything. When Sherlock doesn't reply, he takes the hint and continues. “We went out for some drinks, to blow off steam. It was very fun, and I told them all about deduct—debunk--that thing you can do.” He hiccups. “They think it's amazing, and they want to meet you!”

John sounds so happy and silly that it's hard to be angry with him for not calling in weeks. The relief of hearing John's voice—it's incomparable. Sherlock just wants to close his eyes and drink it in. “I'm sure you were able to perfectly describe deduction in your current state.”

“Well, I started when I was sober! I talked and talked about you. All the guys think you are incredible.”

Sherlock suspects that “all the guys” were just being polite, but he smiles anyway. “So you lied to them about me, eh?”

Another happy giggle. “Oh, Sherlock. You're amazingincrediblewonderful. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too,” Sherlock forces the words from his throat, which is suddenly tight. He coughs and leans his head against the wall of his corridor, trying to collect himself. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“I made a friend today,” he says.

John cheers into the mobile, making it sound staticky. “That's great! Who is she?”

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock says, “'She?' Victor is a man.”

“ _Victor_?” John sounds less enthusiastic. His voice dips low. “A man, eh? Should I be jealous?”

Sherlock bites his lip, hating the way his heart beat picks up. He can feel the nervous flush beginning in his neck and crawling up his cheeks, but before he can reply, John plunders on.

“Oh, shit. Shit! I'm sorry, Sherlock. I shouldn't have said that. I'm drunk.”

“It's fine, John.”

“It isn't! I just...I had a few too many beers, and I miss you, and I said something stupid. I'm really sorry. You can date Victor if you want—it's none of my business, and I shouldn't...I'm just lonely, you know, but I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound crazy or jealous.”

The drunken ramble makes something inside of Sherlock's chest clench. He clutches his mobile tightly. “I told you before that you have nothing to worry about. I meant it.”

Silence, then: “I know. I know you did. And, God, Sherlock—I wouldn't say it if I weren't drunk, but I love you.”

“You can say it when you're sober, if you like.”

“We shouldn't. It's better if we don't.”

Sherlock traces a finger down the wall. “I miss you. When will you be home to visit?”

A groan. “Oh, God. Don't ask me to do math right now.”

Despite himself, Sherlock laughs. “I ought to go to sleep. My roommate is going to murder me as it is. Can you call me tomorrow when you're more alert?”

John's voice is soft. “I'll do my best. I promise.”

“Alright. Goodnight.”

Sherlock rings off and leans heavily against the wall, eyes closed. John loves him, and he's made a friend at Cambridge. Things will get better. They have to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Un-beta'd, as my wonderful beta is off enjoying her birthday. :) Will edit later, as writing this chapter sort of melted my brain. Haha. 
> 
> Come say hello on tumblr and don't forget to let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some important notes at the bottom of the chapter!

_How are classes?_

_Mycroft mentioned you seemed to have made a friend. Good sort, I hope._

_I haven't heard from you once since school started._

_You can't ignore me forever, Sherlock. I'm your father._

\--

“Sorry I have to cut this short,” Victor says, pushing back his chair, but not standing. This is the third time they've had dinner together in just as many days. The dining hall is still bustling with activity. From across the room, Sherlock can see two girls eyeing their seats. “The good news is that--”

“Tonight is your last night taking care of Lulu, yes,” Sherlock interrupts. He pushes a bit of mash about his plate with a frown.

“How did you—did you just deduce me?” When he sees Sherlock's nod, Victor grins. “Brilliant. It's like being friends with a bloody psychic!”

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock says, but he is smiling. He opens his mouth to tell his friend he'll walk with him across campus when his mobile buzzes in his pocket. There are only two real possibilities as to who it could be; both of them make his now-full stomach feel as though it's dropped to his knees.

Sherlock produces his phone and smiles with relief when he sees the caller ID.

“You were supposed to call three days ago,” he says, as he picks up.

Leaning across the table, Victor cocks his head to the side. “Who's that?”

“Who's _that_?” is John's response.

“Oh, nobody important. Just Victor.”

Victor rolls his eyes as he stands collects his tray. “Try to sound less enthusiastic. You're making me blush.”

“Are you two eating dinner? I can call back later.”

Standing, Sherlock gathers his things. He winces when pain flares up his leg—his ankle is killing him, but he refuses to use the crutches. His arms were so sore after his first full day on them that he decided he’s rather limp. “You seem to operate on a completely different concept of time wherein one night can take three days, so I worry that if you hang up now--”

Laughter cuts him off. “You're an arse.”

As they walk toward the bins, Sherlock using his shoulder to hold his mobile to his ear, Victor waves a silent goodbye. He mouths to Sherlock that he'll text him tomorrow and bustles out the doors. Sherlock takes the opposite exit, limping back to his dormitory.

“I was thinking,” John says, “that maybe we could Skype or something tonight. My mate Brandon told me I could borrow his laptop, since I didn't bring mine. Everyone is going to be scarce, I think, so that we can talk.”

Despite the bracing chill in the air, something warm forms in Sherlock's chest. “I'm almost inside. Give me seven and a half minutes exactly.”

“I'm going to time you, you realize.”

“Why do you think I gave you such a specific time frame?”

–

Seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, Sherlock's Skype profile pops up on his computer. When he accepts John's call, the other boy is grinning into his camera, shaking his head in disbelief.

“You mad bastard,” John says. “That was amazing.”

“Child's play. I just had to calculate my distance from my room, the amount of time my laptop takes to boot, and how long it would take me to both lock and stick a chair under the door.”

“Tormenting Oliver again?”

It's Sherlock's turn to grin. “A bit.”

John pulls away from the camera, revealing most of his upper body. “Go on, then. You haven't seen me in months. Deduce your heart out.”

An invitation like that is impossible to resist.

“The t-shirt is old,” Sherlock begins, “and it used to be your father's. You stole it from him before you left. Sentiment, rather than necessity. You wanted something from him to take with you in the army that wouldn't be noticeable to your fellow soldiers. It fits more tightly than it would have three months ago. You have gained noticeable definition in your chest and back, and around your arms. Your hair is still damp from the shower you took approximately sixteen minutes ago. You look...” He swallows thickly. “Good.”

Something in John's face softens, and he reaches out his hand as if he could touch Sherlock through the screen. It falls back to his side. He clears his throat, looking away from the camera. “You, however, look far too skinny. I am pretty sure you could cut glass with your cheekbones that sharp.”

Sherlock rubs a self-conscious hand across his face. “Oh, please. I eat.”

“Not enough, it seems.”

It's probably true. Sherlock doesn't get hungry as often as he ought to, and he knows that that's not a good thing. Instead of worrying about it, however, he's decided to ignore it. A change of subject seems in order, then. “So, why didn't I hear from you?”

John laughs in a way that indicates he knows exactly why Sherlock has moved on from their previous topic of conversation, but he apparently decides to humour him. “Well, I spent the following morning doing drills and regretting all of my life choices, and then sleeping off a headache that evening. Yesterday was hectic, and I barely even noticed the time passing. Today's honestly the first chance I feel I've had to breathe in a long time. Plus, I thought I was making up for it, you know? With the video, and all.”

It does help. Being able to see John—his smile, and his skin, and his hair, and so many things that are the same, even as other parts have changed. He looks more confident and relaxed than Sherlock can remember seeing him look before. The army appears to be good for him.

Dammit.

“I was concerned that you regretted what you'd said to me,” Sherlock admits. He grips his knee and then relaxes his hand—grip and relax, grip and relax. It feels like too much, being this honest. Sherlock hates being honest about his emotions; he prefers to let others operate under the assumption that he has none so that he does not have to deal with them very often. This isn't just anyone, however. This is John, and he is worth the effort.

John is silent, which is a reply all on its own.

“Fine,” Sherlock's voice is tight. “It's fine. I'll forget you said it, and we can go back to dancing around the issue.”

“Sherlock...”

“Oh, please. Don't give me some sorrowful speech. You'll make me vomit.”

John rolls his eyes. “I'm not taking it back, you arsehole. I meant it, and I don't want you to forget it, so stop acting like such a drama queen.”

“But?”

“But what?”

“What do you mean, 'but what?' I'm waiting for you to ruin it.”

An annoyed huff. “You act as if it's simple, you know, when it was _you_ who didn't want to do long distance. I didn't fight it because I didn't want to make you uncomfortable. I respect you, and I've respected your wishes, and then you just keep saying these things to me...”

Sherlock crosses his arms. “I believe you're the one who confessed his love to _me_.”

There's a long-suffering sigh, and John drops his eyes to the ground. When he speaks, his voice is softer, sadder. “You have no idea how hard it is for me to just be your friend. I can do it, and I will do it, but it's not easy for me. When you muddle the line, I just...”

“Just what?”

“I don't know. It _hurts_ me, Sherlock. I'm trying here, I really am.”

The words slip from John's mouth, and Sherlock feels a phantom pain echo in his own chest. The past few months have been tough on him, but he assumed that John had been thriving. After all, John is—well, not normal, but he's certainly able to fake it. He's friendly and kind. Everyone likes John. He hasn't had to feel the crushing loneliness of knowing that his only true friend is far away. The idea that John has suffered, as well, makes his throat tighten up.

This is stupid, he decides. And Sherlock does so hate stupidity.

“Long distance, then.”

John blinks. “What?”

“We should resume our relationship, despite the distance. Obviously.”

A myriad of emotions cross John's face so quickly that Sherlock's computer freezes on just one of his expressions. The picture begins to move again, making John look pixelated and distorted. It's impossible to look at him and deduce anything, which is maddening—after all, one of the perks of Skype is that he should be able to read John.

“I,” John starts, then stops. The internet catches up so that he looks like his normal self, and he is frowning. Sherlock's stomach turns to stone. “I'm not sure. I mean, yes, I want that, but let's be realistic, here.”

Sherlock grips the edge of his desk so hard he can feels his bones pressing against the wood. “Realistic?”

“I have three and a half years left. Years, Sherlock. And yeah, I'll be home a few times, but—I mean, maybe you were right, to say no to the long distance thing. Do you want to spend three years waiting for someone to hold you or touch you or--”

“I want _you_ ,” Sherlock closes his eyes against the look on John's face. Honesty is welling up inside him, pouring out his throat. He sounds needy. John isn't going to want someone desperate—nevermind the fact that Sherlock is just that.

“Hey, look at me. Come on, open your eyes.” Sherlock obeys John's request, but only so that he can glare. John grins as he says, “There you are. I understand, you know. I miss you so much sometimes that it's hard to breathe. But I—I really need this, Sherlock. The army, I mean. It's good for me. It's already changed me for the better. Don't pretend you can't tell.”

Sherlock frowns and does another quick scan of John’s body. He’s confident, happy, secure. And fit, which is rather nice. “I suppose I don't hate the new muscles.”

“Exactly. I know it's selfish, but I don't want to feel guilty for needing this, and I can't see how I can be with you and not feel guilty.” John winces. “That didn't come out right.”

“I make you feel bad.”

“That's not what I meant at all. I just...I'm not saying no, alright? I'd be crazy to say no to you—you're _you_. There's not another person out there who can hold a candle to you, from what I've seen. But I don't want to risk our friendship on a long distance relationship that will be under a tremendous amount of strain. You're too important to me.”

Part of Sherlock hates how reasonable John sounds. Everything he is saying is the same thing he told himself when John first left. After being alone for months, however, the arguments sound less convincing. He swallows. “You’re not saying no?”

“Not at all. I just want us to think about it, make sure we’re not doing this because we’re lonely.”

“But I _am_ lonely.”

John’s face falls. His brow draws together in a gesture of sympathy or empathy or one of those other things that Sherlock doesn’t really understand but that makes his heart do something funny in his chest. “God, me too. I wish we could Skype more often. Just seeing you is…”

The look on John’s face is difficult for Sherlock to distinguish—he’s always so expressive, and Sherlock often lacks the vocabulary to understand what he’s seeing. Now, however, a word comes to him: _hungry_.

He licks his lips. “…John?”

His voice seems to snap John out of it, who scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m sorry, it’s just been months since I’ve seen your face, and you look so…erm, well. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be sorry.” A pause. “You’re alone, right?”

John runs a hand over his face. “No, Sherlock.”

“You aren’t alone?”

“I am, but—no. No to what you’re thinking. My bunkmates could come in at any time, or your roommate, and plus your brother is probably watching this video feed and plotting my death as we speak.” His voice starts slow and then picks up speed. “And, quite frankly, I’m entering a line of work where it would make it far too easy for him to make it seem like an accident.”

“Nonsense,” says Sherlock, “Mycroft likes you.”

John stretches, still a bit pink with embarrassment. “I’m not getting off with you over Skype. It’d be weird.”

“Prude.”

“And proud of it.” He smiles fondly. “Now, stop getting me worked up and tell me about your week.”

Ugh. Small talk. Boring. Sherlock pouts a bit, and ignores John’s laughter when he notices Sherlock’s pouting. “Victor’s fake girlfriend’s dog used my ankle as a chew toy and now I’m supposed to be on crutches. Crutches are the worst, however, so I haven’t been using them. Also, I made a boy cry.”

“I…have no idea where to begin,” John shakes his head in disbelief. “Is that how you met Victor? And why does he have a fake girlfriend?”

“Yes, that’s how I met him, and as he tells it, his father is ‘old-fashioned.’ It’s amazing, how often people use that phrase when they really mean ‘homophobic.’” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. “It doesn’t matter. He’s the first remotely interesting person I’ve met at Cambridge.”

On his screen, John has gone still. “He’s gay?”

It’s petty, of course, but the look on John’s face strokes some terrible, desperate part of Sherlock’s ego. “Jealous?”

At first, John looks as though he’s going to protest. After a minute, his mouth falls closed and he shrugs. “Incredibly.”

The petty thing inside of Sherlock instantly dries up. “I keep telling you that you needn’t worry.”

“I know.” John’s smile is not his most convincing. “Let’s not talk about it right now, okay? We’ll spend some time thinking and revisit everything in a few days. What about the guy you made cry? What happened with him?”

The incident happened days ago, but the frustration at that idiot flares up inside of Sherlock as if less than five minutes have passed. “God, he’s this idiot from my literature course. Always talking, incessantly talking, talking, talking, talking. Which would be fine, if he had anything remotely intelligent or interesting to say, but he doesn’t. His one brain cell must get very lonely.”

John snorts. “You’re impossible. What did he do?”

“We were discussing about some Eliot poem, and the idiot was somehow relating it to demons and hellfire. He was so infuriatingly stupid that I told the class about his bed wetting issues and masturbatory fantasies.”

There is silence through the computer speakers. For a second, Sherlock thinks his microphone has broken—he was expecting laughter, not eerie quiet. When he studies his screen, however, John is frowning, not smiling.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side. “What is it?”

“You—you really did that? I mean, Sherlock, that’s…”

“That’s what?”

John shrugs. “That was kind of cruel, don’t you think? I mean, he’s just some first-year undergrad. He’s probably scared or something and trying to make up for it by participating.”

In the intervening days, Sherlock hasn’t given much thought to Colin. His guilt has melted away, comforted by Victor’s amusement at the story and Colin’s absence in class. Now, it seizes him again. Sherlock brushes away the feeling and clings to anger—John is judging him. John isn’t supposed to judge him. He’s supposed to be _different_.

“I don’t know why you care,” he says, sneering a bit. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t seem to help himself. “It’s not as if you know him.”

Crossing his arms in front of him, John shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. You’ve been on the other end of bullying—just think of Anderson and his twat friends. Why victimize someone else? You should know better.”

“Victor thought it was funny.”

It’s a low blow, and Sherlock knows it the second the words are out of his mouth. John does, too. He looks down, away from the camera, and takes a shuddering breath. Sherlock bites his lip against the apology that wants to come spilling out of him; he doesn’t want to show that kind of weakness to John.

John clears his throat. “I refuse to get upset over that. I won’t be baited.”

 _Thank God_ , Sherlock thinks, even if what he says is, “Alright.”

Neither of them speak for a long moment. Sherlock watches the other boy carefully, trying to determine his every thought and emotion, even as the strength of the signal wans and he has to squint to make John look clear on the fuzzy picture. For his part, John stares at the ground.

Sherlock’s mobile goes off in his pocket. He doesn’t remember turning the ringer on, and he frowns and he looks at the screen. Mycroft, not his father.

“You should take that,” says John.

A grimace. “John…”

“It’s fine. We’re fine. Just…think about what I said, yeah? And consider apologizing to that kid, whoever he is.”

An apology is out of the question. Still, Sherlock nods. John attempts a smile and then signs off, his Skype name going inactive. Sherlock stares at it until his phone stops ringing, then unlocks it and punches in his brother’s number.

“What?” he asks gruffly.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft’s voice is silky smooth, and Sherlock hates him. “I thought we could meet this week. I’ve not seen you in person since you started at Cambridge, and this could be a good opportunity for us to catch up. Father is asking lots of questions, specifically about your friend, Mr. Trevor.”

Sherlock’s eyes roll so far back in his head that he’s surprised he can’t see his own brain. “Tell Father to piss off.”

Mycroft sounds amused when he says, “Oh, God no.”

“Fine. I’ll go. You’re buying me lunch.”

“Eating, are you? I’m assuming you've recently talked to John, then.”

Sherlock rings off before his brother can get out another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, lovely readers!
> 
> 1\. There is a chance that in a few weeks, this story will go on a month long hiatus. I'm planning on doing NaNoWriMo, and I'm not sure I'll be able to handle writing a 50,000 word novel in a month in addition to the chapters for this story. I'm going to try to write a few chapters in advance so that I can have them ready, but I can't promise that will happen. Life is really busy right now. REALLY busy. As much as I wish it did, fanfiction doesn't come first. :(
> 
> 2\. Furthermore, I have to be honest: I'm struggling a bit with motivation for this story, at the moment. It's planned out through the end, so it's not a question of where to go, but I am definitely feeling down about it. That is another reason I'm not sure I'll be able to write the chapters in advance--I want to enjoy the experience of writing this story, and if it's turned into a chore, then I won't.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has read and left a comment! Thank you to my wonderful beta, sureaintmebabe! I will see you all next Sunday. :) In the meantime, come be my friend on tumblr.


	5. Chapter 5

He wakes up to a text from John.

_Busy for the next few days, won’t be able to call. Use it to think. No rushed decisions, okay? Talk to you when I can._

\--

Mycroft shifts in his chair across the table and shoots a despairing look at his salad. Tension in his jaw, an unconscious hand pressed to his stomach—the diet isn’t going well, it seems. Sherlock forces himself to take an extra-large bite of his sandwich, grinning around the food when his brother rolls his eyes. He isn’t hungry, but it’s worth it.

“Is that necessary?” Mycroft asks.

Swallowing down the food, Sherlock shrugs. “What do you mean?”

The elder Holmes sighs and pushes away his dish, half-finished. A moment later, a server hustles by and picks up the plate, whisking it away. “So, how are your classes going, Sherlock?”

The question is boring, so Sherlock ignores it in favor of taking another obscene bite of his meal.

“For God’s sake,” Mycroft mutters. He settles back into his chair and levels a stare at his younger brother. “You may as well talk to me. Father’s been asking after you, and I can probably keep him at bay if you give me something to tell him.”

Sherlock hates how practical that sounds. He sets down his sandwich and pushes it away, taking a sip of his water. “Fine. What is it you want to know?”

“We should be thorough, I suppose. I already have all of your grades so far—don’t give me that face, Sherlock, surely that can’t come as a surprise—but a few extra details to flesh everything out would be good.” Mycroft assumes an innocent face. “You could also tell me a bit about Victor Trevor.”

It’s the real reason his brother is here, Sherlock knows. No doubt he’s already done a full background check on Victor and knows every detail of the man’s life since the day he was born. There’s nothing he can tell Mycroft that Mycroft doesn’t already know, which makes him wonder why he should bother with this charade at all.  
He will, however, because if he doesn’t, Mycroft will go to their father. It is just the sort of manipulative machinations he expects from Mycroft—do as I say, and if you won’t, I have leverage. Really, his brother’s particular brand of ruthlessness is useful when it’s on his side; when it isn’t, however, it is the gravest annoyance.

“Victor’s dog bit me,” Sherlock says. He speaks in monotone, hoping the lack of emotion makes him more difficult for Mycroft to read. “You remarked on the limp yourself.”

“Why not use the crutches Health Services gave you?”

Sherlock snorts.

Although he tries desperately to cover it, there’s a small smile in the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. “Right, then. You’re aware that Victor Trevor is gay, I take it?”

“I think I should be offended that you felt you had to ask me that question.”

“I’m just double checking, brother mine. You’re playing a bit of a dangerous game, here. First John, and now that Trevor character—if Father finds out about his proclivities, he won’t be pleased. He’s already told me I’m to close your credit card and bank account should you ever be found with another boy. Make no mistake, Sherlock. He is always watching over you.”

Sherlock sucks down another gulp of water, trying to quell the burning hatred churning in his stomach. His family is full of the most interfering, bigoted arseholes. Once he is out of uni, he will hide from them and never speak to them again.

“I have no plans to date Victor Trevor,” Sherlock says, looking his brother straight in the eye. “That being said, I can’t help who I am, or to whom I’m attracted, and as soon as I’m out from under Father’s thumb—“

Mycroft scoffs. “You’ll what? Go running back into John Watson’s arms? He turned you down, Sherlock. He isn’t planning on taking you back.”

The heat in his belly cools immediately and turns to ice. That happened last night-- _last night_. It’s barely been more than twelve hours, and yet Mycroft knows. Mycroft _knows_ , which means that Mycroft has been spying on him. John was right.

He has never been so livid in his entire life. He opens his mouth to pour out a wave of vitriol, but Mycroft interrupts him before he has the chance.

“Now, now. Not in public.”

Through clenched teeth, Sherlock hisses, “You’ve hacked my laptop? What else, cameras in my room? My God, Mycroft, you don’t have enough influence for this, not yet.”

Something tightens around Mycroft’s eyes, and Sherlock knows he’s hit a nerve. “I traded a favor. I know you’re upset, but I am doing this for your own good. You think you can just act however you please, but you just _can’t_ (1), Sherlock. If Father finds out—“

“Are you threatening to tell him?”

“I’m trying to help you, you idiot. If I know everything, I can control everything—including the information that does or does not reach our father. He has independent channels, of course, but he trusts me. He relies on me to keep him updated. If I’m forthcoming, he won’t use his own contacts. I understand why you’re upset, but trust me: there are a million things I would rather do than watch you and John confess your undying affection.”

Sherlock glares at his half-eaten sandwich. His hands itch to pick at it, but he keeps them firmly in his lap. No fidgeting. No revealing more than he already has. Mycroft has seen too much already.

“If you know everything,” Sherlock hisses, “then why are you here bothering me?”

“To advise you, dear brother.”

“Piss off.”

Mycroft sighs. “John is right, Sherlock. You two should let each other go. If you go down the path you’re considering, you’re in for nothing but heartache.”

“I’m not listening to this.”

“You ought to be. I know you think you’ve found some eternal,” Mycroft curls his lip in a look akin to disgust, “ _true love_ , or something, but trust me: you are not the first teenager to feel that way. You are also not the first teenager to be wrong.”

Sherlock pushes back his chair and stands. “I don’t have to listen to this.”

“I’m not saying it to hurt you. I’m trying to be honest with you.”

There’s something about Mycroft’s tone—it’s flat, unflappable. He sounds completely calm, even with Sherlock across from him, practically vibrating with all the things he isn’t saying. It’s maddening, his brother’s placidity. Sherlock hates it, hates him, and he leans over the table, speaking low:

“You think you know what’s best for me because of what, your own experiences? A teenage fling gone wrong, perhaps?” Sherlock studies his brother, looking for a reaction, but there is none. That is as good of a confirmation as if he’d lost his cool and shouted. “Please. No one’s ever loved you, Mycroft.”

Mycroft neither flinches nor looks away. “People grow up. They change. Clinging to the past is a mistake, and one I’m afraid you’re in danger of making.”

His cool demeanor puts out Sherlock’s fire. He holds his ground, even as his resolves inwardly crumbles.

“I know you think I’m being deliberately cruel,” Mycroft continues, “but I assure you that all I want is your happiness. I worry about you constantly.”

At that, Sherlock straightens. He takes a step back, away from the table, and then turns on his heel and heads for the door without another word. His brother says nothing and makes no move to stop him from leaving.

\--

As he storms back to his college housing, Sherlock whips out his mobile. He scrolls through his contacts until he finds the number he’s looking for. Victor picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?” Victor sounds fuzzy, confused. There’s a female voice in the background. A lie in with his faux-girlfriend, then. Ridiculous.

“Haven’t you dumped her yet?” The girl has been back for at least—Sherlock glances at his watch—four hours. There’s really no excuse.

There’s a huff through the line. “Hello to you, too, Sherlock.”

“I’ve just had a singularly obnoxious morning. I demand you distract me.”

Victor hesitates. “I’m kind of busy right now. Lindsey just got home a few hours ago, you know, and—“

“You don’t even _like_ her.”

“Shut up, arsehole. Look, there’s a party later, alright? A guy I know told me about it. It’s at some off-campus flat, sounds pretty fun. I can swing by your dorm and we’ll go together.” The young man sighs into the phone. “Although you’re being very unpleasant, so I don’t know why I’m making this generous offer.”

Sherlock hates parties. They’re full of stupid people drinking things that only make them impossibly stupider. The music is always atrocious and so loud that his ears ring for hours after he leaves. There is absolutely no bright side to parties—except that, tonight, it will give him time to _not think_.

Typically, thinking is Sherlock’s favourite hobby. He does it actively. Ever since he was a small child and realized that his mind was capable of amazing things, he’s pushed it to new heights. He has always wanted to know more, discern all of life’s little mysteries. Of course, there are downsides—his senses are delicate and sensitive, and pushing himself in such ways had disassociated him from his peers, but he’s always thought it a worthy trade. His peers are mostly boring and stupid, anyway.

Until John.

John, who had befriended him even when he made no effort to be likeable or approachable. Who had thought Sherlock’s deductions brilliant, and who had kissed him one night on the street and taken him to the Eye even though it was clearly stupid and who had broken his heart and who now might break it again.

He just doesn’t understand. Or, well, he does—it was Sherlock’s own initial thought process, after all. Long distance relationships are hard to manage, and he and John only dated for a few months. They don’t have a strong enough foundation to support the kind of relationship they’d be in once John is shipped off to who-knows-where. Intellectually, Sherlock understands all of that.

Emotionally, however.

It simply isn’t fair. John likes him for who he is and lets him get away with anything he wants. He’s kind and handsome and funny and warm and much smarter than anyone Sherlock’s ever met, outside of Mycroft (and Mycroft doesn’t count, anyway). Why wasn’t it enough for him to go to university? Why wasn’t Sherlock enough?

Sherlock remembers that he once told John that he gave John too much of himself. He thinks he was probably right because now John is far away, and Sherlock feels like half of what he used to be.

Does he want to go to a party? The short answer is no, but the long answer is that he will do just about anything to be distracted from John. It will be hard to think surrounded by drunken morons rubbing up against one another in the dark and not thinking sounds…

Well, it’s not as if he has a better idea.

“Does 9 o clock suit you?” Sherlock asks.

Victor yawns. “Yep.”

“Don’t bring Lauren.”

“ _Lindsey_.”

“Whatever,” Sherlock replies before ending the call.

\--

The rest of the day is spent ignoring his homework and trying hard not to obsess over what John is doing, how he is feeling, what he’s deciding. It doesn’t go well, of course, and Sherlock fishes out his violin from the case stored under his bed in order to calm himself down.

He tunes it, places it under his chin, and then closes his eyes and loses himself in the music. He plays Bach’s Chaconne first—a personal favourite. Kreisler, then. Sentimental, maybe, but he’s so far into the notes he’s playing he hardly notices the way they reflect everything he’s feeling.

When he becomes aware of his surroundings again, it’s dark out and Fat Oliver is glaring at him from his bed. He has a book propped open on his chubby knees.  
“I’ve asked you about twenty times to knock that off,” Oliver spits, motioning to his book. “I’m _trying_ to study.”

Sherlock rolls his shoulders and then places his violin back in its case. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“You’re sitting a metre away from me.”

“I was in my mind palace.”

Oliver mutters something about being stuck with a barmy roommate and then turns back to his text, falling blissfully silent. Sherlock checks the time on the alarm clock by his bed and is relieved to see that he still has time to shower and get dressed. He doesn’t much care about looking nice for the party since there’s no one there he wants to impress, but it gives him something to do. He stores his violin and then grabs his shower kit, heading out the door toward the shower room at the end of the hall.

When he comes back, Stupid Oliver is (thankfully) gone. He dresses in silence and checks his mobile. There’s a text from Victor, telling him he’s outside and to let him in before he freezes his bollocks off. Sherlock grabs his greatcoat and slings it on, thrusting his mobile and a few notes in one of the pockets.

Outside, Victor hops back and forth on his feet. His breath is visible in the air as he exclaims, “There you are, you git! What took you so—is your hair wet?”

Sherlock touches his head. “Yes. I showered.”

“You idiot!” Victor pushes Sherlock back toward the door. “Go dry your hair or you’ll catch pneumonia!”

“You do know that you can’t catch a disease simply by exposure to cold weather, don’t you? You have to come in contact with actual _germs_.”

Victor shakes his head and motions again at the building. “I will not allow you to be a pompous arse about this. It’s a fifteen minute walk. You’ll freeze to death!”

Sherlock snorts. “Has anyone ever complimented you on your gift for hyperbole?”

“ _Sherlock_!”

“You’re not my nanny, Victor. It’s fine. We’ll walk fast.”

With that, Sherlock takes off at a brisk pace, leaving Victor behind. He hears a whispered curse and then footsteps behind him as Victor jogs to catch up. Once at his side, Victor flips him the two finger salute and slows to his pace.

“You don’t even know where we’re going.”

Well, that is true. Sherlock scans his friend, but there are no obvious clues as to where they’re headed. Victor rolls his eyes at Sherlock’s lack of reply and takes the lead. They fall into an awkward silence. Although he is the first person that Sherlock’s more than tolerated in months, Victor is still practically a stranger—they’ve known each other for less than a week.

Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets. “So, you didn’t break up with Lizzie.”

“Lindsey. I know you know her name, stop pretending.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“And you’re right, I didn’t,” Victor sighs and tilts his head back toward the sky. His blond, curly hair falls away from his face, letting the moonlight hit his profile. “I don’t know. I mean, I like her. Not the way I should, you know, but she’s a nice girl. Sometimes I think it’s enough to like her the way I do.”

“You’re a coward,” says Sherlock. He hunches further into his greatcoat. “It’s not fair to either of you, you know.”

“You don’t mince words, do you?” Victor laughs, but it’s a touch too bitter to sound pleasant. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if he’s already managed to isolate himself from the first person to show him any warmth since the start of the school year, but the other man continues talking. “You’re right, though. I know it. I’m being selfish. I should end it before I hurt her.”

Their steps are loud in the night. A group of uni students go running past, shouting out the name of some pub to which they’re headed. As their laughter fades into the night, Sherlock and Victor turn the corner and start heading down another street. The weight of the things they aren’t saying hangs heavy between them.

Sherlock coughs into the crook of his elbow. “At least you’ll be rid of the dog.”

Victor turns to stare at Sherlock, mouth agape. Slowly, the corners of his lips turn up, and then suddenly he is laughing. Eyes closed, bent in half in the middle of the pavement, laughter loud and echoing in the near-empty street. Sherlock stares at him, perplexed.

When Victor unfolds himself, still chuckling and wiping at his eyes, he says, “You’re a giant arse, you know that?”

“I’ve been reliably informed.”

“You never say the things I expect,” Victor shakes his head. “I am glad we met.”

Sherlock’s ankle twinges in sympathy with the sentiment. No one’s been glad to meet him in a long time. He hasn’t returned the feeling in even longer. “I am, too.”

At that, Victor turns and motions to a small group of flats at the end of the block. He’s still trying to control himself, letting out the occasional chuckle as he says, “That row down there is where we’re headed. A friend of a friend, so I’ve never actually been here before, but if it’s boring we’ll ditch out early and hang out at mine, alright?”

Nodding his approval, Sherlock starts walking and lets Victor catch up. When they arrive at the front door, they knock. No one answers, but that’s not a great surprise—the bass from the music is loud and thumping, and Sherlock can already feel it vibrating in his chest.

Victor looks over at him and shrugs, and then pushes the door open. Sherlock follows him inside, attacking the buttons on his coat. There are people everywhere, leaning against walls and standing in groups, all of them talking and drinking and for a moment, it entirely overwhelms Sherlock’s senses. He blinks and takes a deep breath—the air is hot and dense from the press of bodies, but it still clears his mind.

“Come on,” Victor says, “I see my friend. Oi!” He waves an arm at someone in the corner. “Rodney!”

Rodney Wilkes turns around and then elbows the person next to him.

Of course, Sherlock thinks. Of course Sebastian Wilkes would be here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) - Although I wasn't deliberately quoting it, this sounds enough like _Finding Nemo_ that I thought I should cite it. "You think you can do these things, but you just can't, Nemo!" Oh Pixar, how you hurt me.
> 
> So, sorry for the downer fest that was last week's chapter notes. I spent the week listening to my favorite songs from when I was a teenager, and it really put me in the mood to write this story. I think I just needed some musical inspiration. :)
> 
> Thanks, as always, to the wonderful sureaintmebabe for the beta!
> 
> Currently working on something one of my tumblr followers prompted me with a couple weeks ago--Potterlock, anyone? :) Keep an eye out for that! If you want to talk about writing, or give me a prompt, or look at Princess Bride gifsets (because I ALWAYS reblog PB gifsets), then check me out at my tumblr.


	6. Chapter 6

“Sherlock Holmes!” cries Sebastian, jogging across the room. When he’s closer, it’s easy to deduce the source of Seb’s good mood: glassy eyes, manic grin. Sherlock has only ever seen Seb like this once, but it was a fairly memorable event. His former friend is flying high on cocaine.

Rodney walks up a moment later, in full punk regalia. He rolls his eyes at his little brother and offers Sherlock a cool nod. “Holmes, Trevor.”

Victor turns to him, happy and confused. “You know the Wilkes brothers? You never said!”

“Sebastian and I went to secondary school together,” Sherlock tells him, smiling tightly. If he doesn’t react, if he stays silent, then perhaps he can escape this conversation without either Wilkes ruining the one burgeoning friendship he has at Cambridge.

“And he,” Seb waves a hand in Sherlock’s direction, “is the one that figured out that Ice was screwing over Rodney last year.”

Nudging Sherlock with his elbow, Victor beams at him. He looks so genuinely pleased that Sherlock’s stomach turns over. He needs to get Victor away from Sebastian. Rodney seems sober and hardly knows him—the worst thing that he could tell Victor is that Sherlock insulted him, but Sherlock insults everyone and Victor hasn’t seemed to mind that so far.

But Sebastian? Sebastian knows how no one would talk to “the freak” for years, how he nearly got kicked out of school three times for fighting in the hallways, how his father treats him. Sebastian knows enough to make Victor see Sherlock the way everyone else does—as someone alien and other, someone _weird_.

“I remember Rod telling me about that,” Victor says. He nods his head in Rodney’s direction, but his eyes never leave Sherlock. “He also said you called him an idiot in front of one of the most important drug dealers in town and then charged him for the outfit you had to buy to fit in at the club.”

Sherlock schools his face into a blank expression, shrugs. “He wasted my time. It seemed fair.”

“Wasted your time, did I? Well, how about—“

Rodney’s rant is over before it began as Victor puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “It’s just his way. Sherlock is…” He searches for the word. “Persnickety.”

Sebastian snorts. “Have you met his—“

“Sebastian,” Sherlock interrupts because this conversation needs to end _now_. “I think Victor here is interested in buying. Maybe you should shut up and let your brother do his business.”

Cuffing his little brother on the back of the head, Rodney adds, “Yeah, Seb. Stop baiting the freak.”

Something inside of Sherlock crumples. He keeps his chin up, doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch—but Victor’s surprised eyes bore into the side of his face, and all he can think is that it didn’t even last a week, this friendship. He didn’t even get to keep Victor for a week.

“No need to be rude,” Victor says, his voice noticeably tight. He shifts on his feet, suddenly hesitant. “Look, maybe we should forget about it…”

“What?”

Victor shrugs. “I don’t want to buy from someone who is going to be rude to my friend.”

Rodney’s eyes widen comically, but he recovers quickly. “No, it’s fine. I mean, whatever. I’m,” he grimaces, “sorry, Sherlock. Now, Vic, what were you thinking? Spliff, blow, something new?”

The apology, although less than sincere, seems to work for Victor who nods and then starts talking grams and prices. It’s all Sherlock can do to keep his mouth from hanging open. The only other person who has ever defended him so quickly after meeting him is John. Not many people jump at the chance to speak up for the class psycho, even if they know they ought to.

But Victor did. Maybe it’s because he’s older and less afraid of other’s opinions? Or maybe Sherlock has somehow managed to find another good person in the world. Another friend.

His first thought is: _I can’t wait to tell John._

He ignores the wave of sadness that follows.

Money is changing hands as Sherlock tunes back into the conversation. Victor shoves a little baggie into the front pocket of his trousers and then tilts his head toward Sherlock. “Want to find a place to cut this?”

Sherlock hasn’t done cocaine since that one experiment he conducted with Sebastian two summers ago, but Victor is his friend—his real friend who does things like defend him when people are cruel, and he doesn’t want to be rude by refusing. And really, it’s not that big of a deal—he had fun last time he snorted it, and this time the company will be much better.

“Sure,” he says, smiling.

And then Sebastian _fucking_ Wilkes has to open his mouth.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sebastian chokes out a laugh and pushes his way between Victor and Sherlock. He grabs Victor’s shoulders. “You’re going to share your blow with him? _Him_?”

Victor tries to shrug him off. “I don’t see how that’s any of your—“

“Oh, mate, don’t! His dad’ll fucking murder you!”

All four of them freeze. It’s one of those terrible moments that feels like a nightmare. Logically, Sherlock knows that all of the other people at the party are enjoying themselves, drinking, dancing—no one is paying attention to their conversation. He notices everything all the time; if people were looking at them, he would be aware.

But, however irrational it may be, it still _feels_ like this little embarrassment is the center of everyone’s universe.

“Come on, Victor,” Sherlock interjects, grabbing the sleeve of Victor’s coat and tugging, “let’s just go.”

Seb laughs. “Oh, are you serious? You really didn’t warn him?” He quirks a brow at Sherlock. “Holmes’s dad is pretty much the most terrifying motherfucker I’ve ever met, and my brother is a fucking _drug dealer_. He busted us about a year and a half ago, just as we were about to try something,” he announces this happily, with a dreamy smile. He’s still high, and Sherlock has never hated anyone so much before. “I thought he was going to kill me right there! God knows how John survived it. Although I guess he joined the army just to get away, didn’t he?”

Sebastian Wilkes isn’t worthy to mention John’s name.

The world closes in too tight. All the noises seem too loud—the couple groping each other in the corner are moaning, three nerds are pressed up against the wall, talking about which of the girls dancing in the middle of the room they’d like to go home with at the end of the night when they all know they won’t have the courage to make a move, and those same girls are clomping about in heels so that the whole house is full of noise like a stampede and it’s too much too much _too much_ —

Hands on his shoulders, a concerned voice. “—lock? Can you hear me? What is going—“

Sherlock rips himself away, stumbling as he steps back. When he regains his balance, Seb is grinning at Victor, who stares at him with confused eyes.

“Look, it’s your life,” Sebastian concludes, “but I’m just saying: for your own safety, share your blow with someone else.”

Victor looks concerned, but concerned for what, for who? For Sherlock or himself? Considering the (unfortunately accurate) tale that Sebastian just spun, it’s more likely that Victor is now worried his new friend is the son of a psychopath who will destroy him.

Perfect.

The pitying, anxious look on Victor’s face is too much, and shaking himself out of his reverie, Sherlock spins on his heel and bolts away. He’s out the front door and back onto the street, walking so quickly that his greatcoat flaps behind him in the breeze. A moment later, there’s the sound of pounding footsteps behind him.

“Sherlock!” Victor calls out. “Sherlock, stop!”

He does not stop. Instead, he speeds up. He is already reasonably sure he knows what will happen: Victor will tell him it doesn’t matter, but it _will_. He’ll retract the offer with the cocaine, and then he’ll say he’ll text. He won’t, and he never will, and at best, he’ll still nod at Sherlock when they pass each other on campus. At worst, Sherlock will be as invisible to Victor as he is to everyone else at Cambridge.

It’s fairly wretched to think about, so Sherlock decides to skip the entire process.

Victor, on the other hand, has his own ideas. He comes sprinting up to Sherlock’s side, panting through his mouth. There are few damp, blond curls stuck to his temple. “Will you wait? I’m getting a stitch in my side, you arsehole.”

“Not my problem,” Sherlock informs him, continuing his brisk walk down the sidewalk. He hangs a left and goes back through the alleyway.

“Just, hold on!” Victor grabs ahold of Sherlock’s arm and pulls him to a halt. “Look, what Sebastian said back there—“

“Is true. My father is a thoroughly unpleasant human being who did, indeed, threaten Sebastian’s life after he caught us with drugs.”

That seems to surprise Victor, who frowns a bit, but he recovers quickly. “Well, he isn’t here, is he? It’s fine, you know. Lots of people have protective parents, and—“

“I’m sure that’s true. They are not like my father, however.”

“Okay, sure,” Victor agrees, his eyes running back and forth across Sherlock’s face. “But I don’t care about what that twat said, alright? It doesn’t really matter.”

Sherlock snorts. “Doesn’t it?”

“Why are you acting this way?”

Silence. There’s no reason to answer. Their footsteps echo as they empty back out onto Sherlock’s street and head toward his college’s housing. The street is lively with students on their way to and from parties or pubs. A girl limps by them in a pair of broken heels.

“You’re being irrational,” Victor mutters after several minutes of quiet between them. “Sebastian Wilkes was off his face, plus he’s a prick. I don’t care what that liar says.”

“He wasn’t lying.”

“Exaggerating, then. I mean, I doubt your friend joined the army to escape you.”

It’s too much—he can’t listen to Victor talk about John so casually, like John isn’t the most extraordinarily important person in the universe when he obviously _is_. Sherlock knows that Victor just doesn’t understand, that he means no harm, but it’s the last straw. His housing appears and he tears away, getting inside and nearly running up the stairs to his room.

He flicks on the light. Oliver grumbles at him until he turns it off, and when he does so, he crawls into bed. Sherlock isn’t tired—the opposite, really. It’s been a horrible evening, however, and he wishes he could sleep the rest of it away. He hopes the bed inspires such feelings.  
It doesn’t. Twenty minutes later, he’s still awake, so he checks his phone. There are several text messages await him:

_what the hell did you seriously leave me out here_

_fuck Sherlock we’re friends it’s fine I don’t care_

_stop being an arse and come talk to me_

_fine but we’re gonna talk soon whether you like it or not_

Sherlock doesn’t respond. He shuts off his phone and then closes his eyes. It takes hours for sleep to find him.

\--

The next morning, he opens a blank text with every intention of telling Victor to leave him alone. Instead, he writes: _please come home I hate everyone except you and I don’t know why you’re doing this to me please please please come back and also punch Sebastian Wilkes because he is terrible_.

He deletes it and lets his mobile fall uselessly next to him on the bed. 

\--

Avoiding Victor is simultaneously easier and harder than Sherlock expected. He was able to deduce most of Victor’s schedule and is therefore good at preventing any sort of unwanted run-in on campus, and Victor never calls. He does text, but only once a day, and only to encourage Sherlock to get in touch if he wants. They haven’t spoken in over a week, but the texts have continued, despite Sherlock’s lack of response. In a way, Sherlock dreads and anticipates them—it’s nice to know that someone cares, but it’s also terrifying to consider that eventually Victor will tire of waiting and stop sending these messages.

What’s more, Sherlock finds that he _wants_ to respond. Had Victor been pushy or demanding, Sherlock would have ignored him easily, but it’s the patience in each of his messages that wears down at Sherlock’s defences. It doesn’t help that he hasn’t talked to John in over a week. He got an email a few days ago, explaining that he’s swamped, that he misses Sherlock, that he’ll call when he can, but they haven’t actually spoken in what feelings like forever.

John’s email was followed up with a message from Mrs. Watson (“How are you doing? You better be eating, young man. Please visit next time in London, we all miss you. Mr. Watson says hi”) with an addendum from Harry (“P.S. hi this is harry I talked to johnny the other day but only for a minute and he told me not to tell you because you’d be jealous but now I have haha!”).

Hefting his bag over his shoulder, Sherlock makes his way to the library. After extensive observation, he’s discovered that the least populated part of the building is the basement, where the references texts are kept. His fellow students seem to think it’s creepy, so it’s no wonder that it’s Sherlock’s favourite spot on campus.

He goes to an open table in the corner and sets up his laptop, opening and promptly closing his homework in favour of going to the email from the Watsons. He worries his bottom lip as he considers his reply.

Carefully, he types out, “Hi Mrs. Watson,” and then pauses, already out of words.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when Victor is suddenly there, looming over him, eyes wide. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock sinks back into his seat, closing his laptop most of the way. “Upgrading to stalking now?”

“What?” Victor seems genuinely confused. “I’ve not been…I mean, I only sent you a few texts, and—well, look, I’m not here to argue with you. I broke up with Lindsey.”

Well, that’s surprising. Victor had acknowledged the necessity of that action, but Sherlock had expected him to hesitate for several more weeks before actually ending the relationship. He’s deduced many parts of Victor’s personality, and bravery hasn't been one of the traits.

Still, if he admits his shock, he’s practically inviting conversation, and that is not what he wants to happen. He doesn't need more weaknesses, and that’s all his friendship with Victor would ever really be—just another way to hurt him.

“So?”

Instead of being offended by the curt reply, Victor plops down in the empty chair across from him and sighs. “She said that she loved me. Like, properly _loved_ me. And she started talking about a future, and all I could think was that you were right, and I was in over my head, and I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock closes his laptop the rest of the way, listening to it shut down. “Well, yes.”

“I’m trying to apologize for the other night,” Victor growls. He doesn’t mean it; it’s more playful than anything. “Stop being a dick, and let’s be friends again.”

“You have no reason to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?”

How to answer this question, Sherlock wonders. How can he possibly put it into words: _I don’t have friends, I only have one, and really, I can barely handle that amount. He’s gone, and I’m lonely and miserable, and what if I end up being your friend and you abandon me too, what then? My brother likes to say that caring is not an advantage, but what he really means is that it makes you vulnerable, and it’s terrifying, and I’m just generally bad at it, so please stop, you’re scaring me._

The words are too much. He keeps his expression neutral, hoping that Victor can’t tell what’s running around inside his head. Dropping his laptop in his bag, Sherlock starts to gather up his notes. “Does it matter?”

“Of course it matters!” Victor frowns. “Look, I’m not—well, I mean, I’m not a crazy stalker, or anything. If you genuinely want me to leave you alone, I will, but…”

“But what?”

A slight shrug, a touch of a smile in one corner of Victor’s mouth. “I don’t know. I just get the feeling you don’t actually want that.”

“And you’ve deduced this how? Or did you just intuit my _feelings_?” He exaggerates the word, snorting in disgust. “Come off it.”

Something like doubt comes into Victor’s eyes, but he remains in his seat. “I don’t know why you’re acting like this, but I’m not an idiot. You could have told me to stop at any time, and I would have stopped. I think you know that.”

Sherlock says nothing, staring at the same piece of table as he considers everything Victor has just said. It’s true, of course, although it’s a good guess rather than a real deduction. He hates the tight feeling in his chest, the way his heart beats just a little bit too fast, encouraging him to just reach out and _make a friend, dammit_.

He lets out a shuddering sigh. “Well, did you snort all that cocaine or did you leave some for me?”

Victor laughs too loud. They’re lucky they’re on the lowest level, with few other students. “You’re ridiculous. That was a week ago. Did you expect me to save you your share?”

“Well,” Sherlock fights back a smile, “I had hoped.”

“Twat. We’ll get more, if you really want. I may need it, to deal with the epic amount of guilt I am currently facing over the Lindsey situation.”  
Sherlock smirks. “I told you to—“

“Right, right. Shut it, smartarse.”

\--

And just like that, Sherlock has a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a reminder: this is the last chapter for the next five weeks! I am taking off for the month of November in order to do NaNoWriMo. Considering the first Sunday in December is, in fact, December 1, I won't be posting then, either. So! Next update will be on December 8, 2013, and I will do my best to make it awesome. After that, updates will be back to their regular weekly schedule.
> 
> Thanks for all of your patience! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. :) Should you have any questions or just want to talk about writing, I will still be on tumblr, probably rating about how I am an idiot for trying to do NaNoWriMo.


	7. Chapter 7

“Oh, Holmes! Wait a moment, will you?”

Sherlock pauses and then moves a step back, getting out of the way as his classmates filter through the doorway. He turns back to Dr. Channing, who is placing a notebook in her messenger bag. A bit unprofessional, that. She gives him a smile as she slings it over her shoulder and motions for him to come closer.

What had he done? He hadn’t said anything snarky or offensive—well, not that he can recall, at least. He hedges closer, frowning. “Yes?”

Dr. Channing grunts against the weight of her bag, and then smiles at him again. She has lipstick on her teeth. “I wanted to tell you that I was really impressed with the coursework you’ve turned in so far. Top notch stuff, Holmes. You are reading chemistry, right?”

He preens a bit under the praise, but tries not to show it. “Right.”

“Excellent. Honestly, I’m not sure why you’re in this course—it’s an intro class. I thought I might give you some extra work, if you’re not opposed, so that you can get the pre-requisites to take some higher level classes next term. How do you feel about that?”

That sounds—extraordinarily good, actually. Dr. Channing is nice enough, with her cheap lipstick and sloppy, unkempt hair, but she is also someone clearly used to teaching idiots. His chemistry coursework has been a joke since the start of the year. He shifts a bit on his feet, trying to bite back a grin. “That’d be great. I mean, I’d really appreciate it.”

She waves a hand toward the door and they begin walking out. “It’s nice to see someone with actual potential, for a change!” She pauses, frowns, and seems to realize what she’s just said. “Which isn’t to say—oh, damn, I’ve bollocksed it up.”

“No,” Sherlock says, smirking a bit, “I think you said exactly what you meant.”

She offers him a sly grin. “Well, perhaps, but I think you’ll find, Mr. Holmes, that it generally pays to keep those kinds of thoughts to oneself.”

He rolls his eyes. “I have no desire to play nice with the other children.”

The pair of them come to a split in the hallway. She nods to the right, but Sherlock is done with classes for the day and is heading toward the left. Reaching out, Dr. Channing grasps his arm. “Holmes, don’t let your cleverness make you think you’re infallible. It’s a mistake to do so, and it’s one I think you’ll regret.”

He shrugs his arm back. “What?”

“You’re special, you know. Great potential, as I said. But…” she trails off, bites her lip. “Intelligence doesn’t guarantee success, and I want you to remember that.”

“I will,” he says, flatly. It’s a lie, of course. He intends to delete this conversation as soon as possible.

She’s lecturing him—she is actually lecturing him! About success? What with her—he eyes her jewelry, her bare left hand, her clothing—two divorces, and the child that no longer speaks to her? Sure, she’s a professor at a prestigious university, but she’s also smart enough that she should be doing actual research, not babysitting first years who doesn’t know what a covalent bond is.

Dr. Channing isn’t an idiot. Even though he has schooled himself into a neutral expression, she is giving him the sort of sad eyes that mean she knows he is not planning on listening to her. She heaves a sigh and says, “I’ll get back to you about that coursework, alright?”

“Great,” he answers, a bit too sharp, and then turns and bursts out the door, where Victor is already waiting for him.

 

The pair of them have become inseparable, over the past few weeks. Sherlock expected Victor to just give up on him after the drama that Sebastian Wilkes caused, but Victor’s proven to be rather difficult to shake. In a good way. Sherlock has been surprised at how much he doesn’t want to—well, shake him.

Victor’s smart, in his own way. He’s got a sharp tongue and the worst taste in film, and he is always, always in the mood for Thai food. He doesn’t understand chemistry, but he never tells Sherlock that he shouldn’t smoke. He buys Sherlock’s drinks when they go out, since Sherlock is still too young, and complains about Lindsey continuing to call him, and for some reason, this perfectly normal bloke is good company.

It doesn’t help, of course, that Sherlock hasn’t heard from John in—well, he doesn’t like to consider that. John had asked for time, and Sherlock had agreed to give it to him. It’s just that he hadn’t expected John to need quite so _much_ time. Now, it’s been so long that Sherlock realistically knows that silence could only mean one thing.

Part of him wants to call John, have it out with him, make the cowardly bastard _say it out loud_ so that they can be finished, for once and for all. There’s another part of him, however, that dreads every time his mobile rings because it might be the call where John formally ends it.

Victor is a fair distraction. He’s no John—no one is, sadly—but Sherlock doesn’t want another John. He has a perfectly wonderful John already. Even if (when, he thinks, then internally winces) John decides he doesn’t want a long-distance relationship, they’ll still be friends. It will be bloody miserable, of course, but if his options are platonic John or no John, then the former will always win.

Still, there’s nothing wrong with having a Victor, Sherlock thinks. In fact, Sherlock is often pretty grateful that he found him.

 

“You won’t believe what my professor just said to me,” Sherlock spits out, as soon as he’s within hearing distance of Victor.

The other man looks up from his mobile, a crease in his forehead. Lindsey, then. The girl has not given up, even with Victor’s continued disinterest. “Yeah? What happened?”

“She started off offering me extra coursework so that I can take some harder classes next term,” Sherlock starts.

Victor interrupts him. “Well, that sounds perfect! Then I could stop listening to you complaining about how easy everything is all the damn time.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and they begin to head down the path, toward the dining hall. “Shut up, you bastard,” he ignores Victor’s cheeky grin. “Anyway, afterward she had the gall to suggest that I be friendlier to my classmates. Told me that being intelligent isn’t enough, or some rubbish.”

A snort. “She clearly hasn’t talked much to you before, has she?”

“I don’t know why you insist on thinking you’re funny. You’re really not.” He can’t help but grin when Victor nudges him with his shoulder, and they continue their walk in silence.

They’re just inside the dining hall when Sherlock’s phone rings. His stomach takes a dramatic dive toward his feet and his mind spins with possibilities—It’s John isn’t it and he’s going to end it oh God do I pick up or let it ring I don’t know what to—

Somehow his phone is in his hand. He doesn’t remember getting it out of his pocket. His entire sphere of attention has narrowed on this one small device; he might have a heart attack before he actually flips it over to see the Caller ID on his screen.

 

That is, until Victor snatches the mobile from him “Who do you know that always calls at dinner, without fail? No, seriously, it’s actually kind of incredible.” He stops, a slow grin on his face. “Wait, is it that bloke Sebastian mentioned a few weeks back? What’s his name—Jo—“

Sherlock lunges forward and wrestles his mobile away from Victor. He glares viciously, curling over his phone possessively. “Don’t touch it. This might be—“ The ringing stops. “Dammit!”

Victor blinks, shrinking back away from Sherlock’s fury. “It was a joke. I mean, I’d never—“

The screen below doesn’t read John’s name—Sherlock isn’t sure if the wave of disappointment or of relief is more potent. Instead, Mrs. Watson pops up as his missed call. All of the anger drains from Sherlock abruptly; he’s sure to have inspired Victor’s curiosity now, when he’d done so well at keeping John out of all of their conversations.

It’s not that he’s ashamed of John. Quite the contrary, really. But talking about John is _serious_. It is difficult and painful and while Sherlock likes Victor, he’s not sure he’s ready to share that much of himself with someone else. Victor’s only the second true friend he’s ever had; it’s not that he doesn’t trust him, he just wants to be careful.

He wasn’t careful enough with John, he thinks. And look where it got him.

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, still staring at Mrs. Watson’s name. “It’s not a big deal.”

Victor recovers enough to gape at Sherlock. “’Not a big deal?’ I thought you were going to attack me! Seriously, what the hell was that about?”

Sherlock clears his throat, schooling his features into something calm and aloof. Or, more accurately, that’s what he _hopes_ they look like—his emotions are still a tumult inside of his chest. “I’ve just been waiting on an important phone call.”

This seems to satisfy Victor a bit, although he still looks curious. “Well, then. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a prick, I was just trying to tease you.”

“Tease me?”

Victor rolls his eyes in that way that says _I-can’t believe-I-have-to-explain-normal-human-interaction-to-you_. “Yes, tease you. It’s a thing mates do,” when he sees the genuine confusion on Sherlock’s face, he softens. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll catch on. You going to call them back?”

“Who?”

With a laugh, Victor nods at the phone. “Your mysterious and important phone call.”

Sherlock flips him off and then rubs a thumb over his mobile’s screen. “It can wait if you want to go to dinner.”

“No, no. Go ahead.”

Sherlock unlocks his screen and taps Mrs. Watson’s name. He holds his mobile to his ear and is barraged with a happy shriek of “Sherlock!” when the woman herself picks up.

“I thought I’d missed you!” she says, sounding genuinely pleased. It’s a pleasant thing to hear, and Sherlock feels warmth spread across his cheeks. He can’t remember the last time anyone sounded happy to talk to him. “So glad you called back!”

“Of course, Mrs. Watson,” he says.

“I was wondering if you had plans for tomorrow night? Or if you were possibly coming to London for the weekend? Although I doubt that last one, your father’s a bit of an arse, and I don’t think you’d want to visit him.”

 

He laughs and glances over at Victor, who is watching him with a small smile on his face. “Well, yes. That’s why I haven’t been home since the start of the school year. But no, I don’t have any particular plans for tomorrow.”

“Wonderful! Would you be willing to take the train down to London? Mr. Watson will pick you up from the station. We want to have you over for dinner!”

He can’t control the grin on his face. Dinner with the Watsons! It almost makes up for the long silence from John. “That’d be lovely. I’ll catch the 5 o clock train to London tomorrow evening, so if—“

His words trail off. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock notices something moving. Victor is waving his arms about, trying to get his attention. He mouths “what?” and motions toward his mobile, through which Mrs. Watson is happily making plans.

“I’m going to London tomorrow to visit my dad,” Victor half-whispers. A student on their way to dinner bumps into him and he nearly topples over, letting out a grunt and rubbing his side before adding, “I’ve a car, and I don’t mind dropping you off.”

“Hold on, Mrs. Watson,” Sherlock says. He brings his phone away from his mouth. “Thanks, Victor, but that’s really unnecessary. The train—“

“I wouldn’t offer it were a bother. This way no one has to come and pick you up during the busiest part of the day.” Victor nudges him arm. “Let me make it up to you, for grabbing at your phone.”

Sherlock nods then brings the phone back to his ear. “Change of plans. My friend is driving down to London tomorrow, and he has offered to drop me off at your house. No need to inconvenience Mr. Watson.”

Mrs. Watson sounds curious when she replies, “Oh, well that was kind of your friend.” There’s a long pause before she adds, “He is welcome to join us, of course, if he’d like.”

Sherlock frowns at the note in Mrs. Watson’s voice. There’s something about it that is—strange. Suggestive. She couldn’t really think—she knows how he and John are. But the deduction is clear: she seems to think that this ‘friend’ is more than a friend.

“His name is Victor,” he drops his voice and turns away from the other man, who looks at him curiously. “And it isn’t like that, you know.”

There’s a measure of relief in Mrs. Watson’s tone when she says, “Of course. Well, Victor is more than welcome to join us.”

“He’s visiting his father, he won’t have time.”

“Alright, well. Dinner at six, alright? We’re all dying to see you!”

They say their goodbyes and ring off. When he turns back around, Victor is staring, openly and with interest. “So who was that?”

“Family friend,” Sherlock watches Victor open his mouth again and quickly cuts him off. “Come on, let’s go grab dinner.”

Victor is smart enough to realize that the subject is closed. He obediently follows Sherlock into the dining hall and does not mention the phone call again for the rest of the day.

\--

On Friday, Sherlock’s last class lets out at four in the afternoon. He hurries back to his dorm—not even a phantom pain from his ankle, as it’s been weeks since Lulu’s attack, but the scar that’s formed is more than a bit hideous. Fat Oliver is not around, so Sherlock is able to take his time getting dressed. He spends far more time than he would ever admit making sure his curly hair lies in a way so that it looks like he hasn’t spent twenty minutes styling it. He picks out a nice outfit—a button down shirt and a pair of well-fitting trousers—and dresses carefully before stepping into his long coat.

He’s just done up his last buttons when his mobile starts ringing on the desk. Victor, letting him know that he is waiting for him downstairs in his car. Sherlock gathers his keys and his mobile and rushes out the door, nearly running into Oliver in the process. He ignores the other boy’s swearing and sprints down the hallway, vaulting down the stairs and out the front door.

Following the path around to the parking lot, he spots Victor’s beat up silver Peugeot. He lets himself in on the passenger’s side and minutes later they’re merging onto the M11.

They’re silent for the first ten minutes, but it’s a comfortable silence. Sherlock has always appreciated being around people who don’t feel the need to unnecessarily prattle on for hours on end. Such behaviour is irritating at best; after all, nearly everyone is an idiot. Being inflicted with a constant barrage of their opinions is akin to torture, in Sherlock’s opinion.

When Victor decides to break the silence, Sherlock can’t help but be a little disappointed.

“So,” Victor says. His tone is casual, but he’s gripping the steering wheel tight. This is going to be an uncomfortable conversation, then. Sherlock bites back a sigh. Marvellous.

“So,” Sherlock parrots. He ignores Victor’s glare.

“Who is it that you’re having dinner with again?”

Great. This is exactly the topic of conversation Sherlock does _not_ want to indulge in. “The Watsons. They’re friends of mine, like I told you before.”

Victor fiddles with the knob for the radio, turning it down very low. “How’d you meet them?”

 

Sherlock doesn’t answer immediately as he scrambles to come up with an answer that is not a lie, but also not quite the truth. It’s harder than he expects; lying is typically second nature to him, but it’s harder to lie when everything centres around JohnJohnJohn.

The truth comes out before he can stop it. “I went to school with their son.”

“Their son?” Victor’s curiosity is piqued, and Sherlock hates himself for daring to say the words. “Is this the mysterious John you won’t talk about?”

“I’ve no idea what you mean.”

Reaching out haphazardly to his left, Victor smacks Sherlock in the arm. “Don’t give me that!” His tone is light. More of the teasing her mentioned before? “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you never talk about that guy that Wilkes mentioned. And now you’re going to visit his _family_?”

Sherlock sinks behind the upturned collar of his coat. “It’s fine. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Don’t lie. I mean, you’re going to hang out with them, they obviously mean something to you.”

“They are kind to me.” A pause. “I’m…fond of them.”

Victor frowns and signals to get around a slow-moving car. “You—I mean, God, I sound like an arse. You’re not required to tell me anything, you know, okay? Like, if you want to keep all of this to yourself, that’s fine. I just…”

The unfinished sentence gets under Sherlock’s skin. “Just what?”

“I mean, we’re mates? Mates talk to each other.”

“We talk all the time.”

Victor sighs, frustrated. “Yeah, but I mean talk about—well, you know. _Stuff_. Girls or boys or romance or whatever.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and looks out the window.

“Hey, come on. Don’t be like that,” The older man keeps his eyes on the road, but he sounds strangely strained. “You just—you knew everything about me at a glance, you know? My fake girlfriend and my overbearing father, and Christ, even that I was _gay_ , and I still feel like, after so much time, I barely know anything about you.”

It’s true and it isn’t. Sherlock tells Victor lots of things—he complained about Professor Channing earlier today, for example. The personal stuff, however, he keeps to himself. He always have. There’s only ever been one exception, and it didn’t go well.

It’s not Victor’s fault that Sherlock doesn’t completely trust him. Sherlock doesn’t completely trust anyone.

Mates, though, are apparently supposed to discuss these things.

“John is the Watson’s son. He was my friend.” He shuts his eyes and grimaces. “Is. He is my friend.”

He can’t see Victor’s elated expression, but he can sense it. Who knew that making oneself vulnerable could make another person _happy_?

“Right! So. John Watson. He’s in the army, right?”

“Phase two training right now.”

Even Victor cannot fail to pick up on the dullness in Sherlock’s tone. He glances at Sherlock briefly, then turns his attention back to the motorway. The pathetic expression on Sherlock’s face makes it easy for anyone to deduce. “Is he—your, you know, boyfriend?”

There is a long silence. There are a thousand things Sherlock wants to say, but all that comes out is a stiff, “No.”

Mortification crawls across Victor’s face. “Oh, Christ, I’m—I mean, you’re not gay. Right. I made assumptions, and I’m sorr—“

Victor’s babbling is straining Sherlock’s last nerve. He cuts him off to prevent it from continuing. “Stop talking. He was my…well. We broke up when he left for Phase two.”

Slowly, as if Sherlock is some sort of wild animal, Victor reaches out and puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He squeezes once, and for some reason the movement causes a similar squeezing in Sherlock’s chest.

“He broke your heart, didn’t he?” The question is rhetorical. Sherlock doesn’t answer, just stares out the window. Victor lets out a little sigh and gives Sherlock a pat before moving his hand away. “I’m sorry I brought it up. But…”

“But what?”

“Thank you for telling me. I appreciate that you trusted me with this, I really do.”

The words soothe some of the throbbing hurt in Sherlock’s chest. He closes his eyes in relief. “You’re welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand I'm back!
> 
> To answer preemptively: Nanowrimo didn't go so well! I didn't hit the word limit, but that's okay! November was not the best month for me to be attempting this feat. I was job hunting and starting at a new position, and there was a lot going on in my personal life. But! Now I have returned, and weekly updates should go back to normal!
> 
> I'm excited to get back to work on this, and I hope you enjoyed this update. :) Let me know what you think here or at my [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com).


	8. Chapter 8

Victor pulls over in front of John’s house, and after thanking him for the ride, Sherlock gets out and walks around the car. 

Victor rolls down his window. “Call me when you want me to pick you up!”

Sherlock nods and raises a hand before turning back toward the house. He is only partway up the drive when the front door bursts open and Harry Watson comes running at him at full speed. She launches herself into his middle, wrapping her arms around him and squeezing as she emits high pitched squeals.

A little overwhelmed, Sherlock pats at her head. She’s grown since he’s last seen her—at least five centimeters. At that rate, she is going to be taller than her older brother. That petty thought makes him smirk a bit.

“Harry, stop assaulting Sherlock!” Mr. Watson calls from the door. He’s leaned outside and is watching them both with a smile on his face.

“You came!” Harry says into Sherlock’s stomach. “I knew you would! It’s almost my birthday, did you bring me a present?”

Well, shit. He does a quick search of his mind palace and finds only one entry related to Harry’s birthday—it’s buried deeply in his files because it’s connected to that disastrous Christmas Eve dinner at his parents’ house last year. Luckily, he still has a few weeks, so instead he pulls away and grins down at her.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I am going to send it to you on your actual birthday and not a day before that.”

Harry pretends to pout, but she can’t keep up the pretence long. It melts away into a grin as she grabs Sherlock’s hand and begins to drag him toward the house. Sherlock looks over his shoulder and sees that Victor is still on the street, watching the entire scene play out. His face is impossible to distinguish at this distance, but he waves goodbye, and Sherlock, before becoming Harry’s hostage, does the same.

The front door closes behind him as he enters, and Mr. Watson clasps a hand on his shoulder, grinning broadly. He looks nothing like John—too tall, too broad. He’s got dark brown hair and big smile. Still, there’s something in the way he carries himself, in the open friendliness of the tone of his voice, that reminds Sherlock very much of his son. “Good to see you! Carol has talked about getting you down here for dinner for months!”

Mrs. Watson appears at the end of the hallway that connects to the kitchen. She casts a critical eye over him as she wipes her hands on a dishcloth. “Well, someone has to feed him up!” She shakes her head. “I _told_ you he was barely eating at that school. I could feel it in my bones. Mother’s instinct.”

Her husband rolls his eyes. “Yes, dear.”

Sherlock manages to disengage from Harry’s manacled grasp of his hand and moves down the hallway to Mrs. Watson, who opens her arms and sweeps him into a hug. It occurs to Sherlock, as her arms wrap around him, that prior to this evening, he can’t remember the last time someone has touched him. Really touched him, in more than casual way. Victor grabbed his elbow to steer him away from a dead animal on campus the other day (“But I could use it for an experiment!” Sherlock had protested, to which Victor had answered, “You could also use it to catch rabies. _Leave it_.”) but other than that, he can’t remember the last time someone has willingly held him like this.

He didn’t know it was something he’d missed. He didn’t know it was possible to miss it.

It makes something inside of him ache for John, but he swallows that feeling down and takes a step back, sending Mrs. Watson as bright a smile as he can manage. “Thank you for having me over.”

She reaches up to ruffle his hair. “Look at this mop of hair! It’s getting so long.”

He turns his head out of her hand. Harry chooses that moment to push between the two of them. Sherlock laughs a bit; the girl clearly wants to be the centre of his attention. She stands in the middle of the kitchen and points at the table. “Look, Sherlock! We have a surprise for you!”

“Harry!” Mr. Watson says, coming up to stand by his wife. “We told you to wait!”

Harry grins. “But I couldn’t!”

Sherlock looks over at where she has pointed. The table is set up nicely—the Watson’s good china, which he has never seen used before. A gift from a family member on their wedding day? Most likely. The Watsons aren’t exactly financially well-off enough to buy new china whenever they want, and there’s a chip in the dish closest to him, which speaks to repeated uses in the past.

The most surprising thing, however, is at the far end of the table. The Watson’s have set up a laptop—screen open and active. There’s a little box in the middle, and when Sherlock takes a step closer, he’s able to see the program running is…

He turns to look at Mr. and Mrs. Watson, who are grinning from ear to ear. “He’s been complaining endlessly about how much he wishes he had more time to call you, so we came up with our own solution,” Mrs. Waston tells him. “We already had a Skype date planned for this evening, so we thought it might be fun to surprise you both.”

“Just don’t be gross,” Harry adds.

It is very difficult to surprise Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was the first person to do it (well, besides Mycroft, but Mycroft hardly counts because he is Mycroft), and now Sherlock clearly sees why—he is from an entire family of surprising people. He realizes he is gaping, his mouth hanging open in shock at the open computer screen, and he closes it quickly.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice suddenly thick in his throat. “This is…”

Mr. Watson nods and pats Sherlock’s shoulder once more, then motions toward the table. “Why don’t you have a seat? We’ll eat a bit first. John’s supposed to call in about fifteen minutes.”

The family works together to dole out plates of pasta (“Harry is in a fettuccini period,” Mrs. Watson tells him with no small amount of patience) and then sits around the table, chatting comfortably. They talk about their days, and Harry tells everyone that she got a perfect score on her most recent spelling test.

Sherlock says little. He pushes his pasta around on his plate, twirling it about his fork, but he rarely takes an actual bite. His stomach twists into knots every time he glances at the screen; John could call at any moment. And yes, this gesture is thoughtful and lovely, but it’s also—nerve-wracking. Surely John won’t tell Sherlock that it is over between them in front of the rest of the Watsons? Of course he wouldn’t. Even if John doesn’t _love_ Sherlock, he loves Sherlock. He would never be so casually cruel.

Unless he would. But he wouldn’t, that’s ridiculous.

Sherlock still finds he can’t eat. He uses his fork to break noodles in half so that it looks like he’s done something with the food on his plate. He can feels Mrs. Watson watching him and carefully avoids catching her eye.

“Sherlock—“ she begins, but the sound of a call coming through Skype breaks up the conversation before it begins.

“Hide, Sherlock!” Harry screeches, vaulting out of her chair and grabbing his arm. He allows himself to be dragged away. “It’ll be more fun if you pop out of nowhere!”

Once he is out of the view of the camera and Harry is settled back in her seat, Mr. Watson accepts the call. John’s face pops up on the screen, briefly pixelated and fuzzy before becoming clear. He grins at his family, and from his place off to the side, Sherlock drinks in his face. His blond hair is still shorn short, his shoulders are bulkier, and there are deep bags under his eyes—still, John looks happier than Sherlock can ever remember seeing him.

“Johnny!” Harry says, waving vigorously.

“Hi!” John replies, smiling. “God, it’s good to see all of you. This has been the week from hell.”

“Well,” Mrs. Watson cuts him off. “I’m sorry you had a tough week, but we brought a bit of a surprise for you…”

John cocks his head to the left. Sherlock hates himself for the way his heart clenches at the motion, for how very dear he finds it. Mrs. Watson motions him forward, and he rolls his eyes at her, but smiles fondly as he moves into view of the camera and sits back down at his empty chair.

John’s jaw drops. He is shocked, but not displeased. Once he shakes his head and gets himself together, John grins wider than Sherlock has ever seen before. “Oh my God,” he says, and nothing in his tone registers that he’s planning to break Sherlock’s heart in the near future. For the first time in the weeks since he last spoke to John, Sherlock does not quash the hope that begins to kindle in his chest.

“Hi, John,” he says, smiling lightly.

John moves closer to the camera, like that will somehow decrease the distance between them. “Sherlock, oh my God. You’re here! I’ve missed you so much.”

“I missed you, too.” It feels like too much to admit, especially with all three of the other Watsons watching his every move, but he has to say it, can’t keep the words from his lips. John is there, John missed him, John looks pleased to see him. Suddenly, he can’t remember why he was ever terrified of this moment.

Harry pushes her way in front of Sherlock, leaning across the table and into the camera. “Stop being gross!” She orders. Everyone bursts into laughter around her, and she settles back into her seat, clearly pleased with herself. “Having Sherlock over was _my_ idea,” she adds, preening a bit.

“Yes,” Mr. Watson agrees, rolling his eyes. “But it was because she wanted to play him in Mario Kart more than anything else.”

Scowling at her father, Harry crosses her arms over her chest. “Well, I’m really good now!”

Mrs. Watson pats her arm. “Of course you are, dear. So, Johnny, were you surprised?”

It’s a silly question. The answer is obviously yes. Even an idiot could read it in John’s raised eyebrows, his stunned silence. Sherlock is feeling very charitable toward all the Watsons, however, so he forgives the question and instead waits for John to answer it.

“Of course I am,” he says. His eyes are bright and happy. “This is a wonderful surprise. Thank you, Harry. While Sherlock’s there, you should make him watch _Singin’ in the Rain_.”

Sherlock feigns hurt. “Really, John, why do you hate me?”

The conversation picks up then. John tells them all about his hell week—on of his mates got everyone in trouble, and they’ve been forced to do extra drills to make up for it. He’s barely slept, hardly had the energy to eat, and yet he seems to be glowing. Sherlock has never seen John so radiantly confident in himself.

There’s also the subtle way John’s eyes keep turning toward Sherlock. He responds to every question his family throws at him without pausing, but his gaze always finds a way to track back to Sherlock, to stare, to drink him in. It’s been too long since they’ve seen each other; Sherlock can feel himself doing the same thing, staring helplessly.

“Maybe Johnny and Sherlock would like to talk alone for a few minutes,” Mrs. Watson says after a few minutes, when it’s clear that they no longer have John’s attention.

John is instantly sheepish, contrite. “Oh, no, I mean—don’t go away, I barely get to Skype with you guys, and I don’t want to—“

Mr. Watson grins. “It’s fine, John. Really. We understand that you two—“

A large crash comes through the speakers, and all four of them jump back, startled. John turns around on the screen, showing off a muscled back (Sherlock can’t help but notice, it’s impossible not to). He shouts at someone off-camera, “What the hell, Avery?”

“Oi, sorry mate!” The voice is faint, but distinguishable. This ‘Avery,’ appears to be one of John’s bunkmates. Originally from Bristol, but that’s all that Sherlock is able to get from the voice alone. “Didn’t realize you were talking to anyone!”

“Yeah, well, I am!” John shoots back, turning back to the camera. He rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed.

“Should have known, you’re always Skyping! Is it Mary again?”

Everyone freezes. John goes still, his eyes flying wide. All the Watsons turn to stare at Sherlock, looks of shock painted on their faces; even Harry, usually oblivious to these sorts of things, is completely aghast. All eyes are on Sherlock, watching him, waiting for him to react.

He doesn’t. He retreats.

Inside his head, his mind races. Mary—who is _Mary_? He can’t have met her since joining the army, so he knew her before. He searches his hard drive of a brain for the correct answer and comes up with one entry: Mary Morstan, the girl at Molly Hooper’s belated New Years party, the one who flirted with John. He’d been jealous, and John had said her father was in the military.

Sherlock clears his throat, then says, “Excuse me.”

Through the speakers, John’s voice cracks frantically. “Sherlock, wait!”

Sherlock does not. He walks through the kitchen, down the corridor to the front door, and then out into cold winter night. He stands on the stoop, his mind still working. Mary Morstan, Mary Morstan.

John never mentioned her outside of that one party, although they had apparently stayed in touch. In the past, Sherlock had demonstrated a measure of insecurity over her presence, so it’s not surprising John would keep that from him. But why would John seek to be friends with her, some random girl from a party that he’d met _once_?

It’s the military family, of course. Father in the army, moved around a lot as a child. She knows about the hardships of loving someone who consistently puts themselves in danger. It’s the sort of thing that John would worry about, consider. He probably reached out to her before even submitting his application. That would mean that he’s been talking to her for nearly a year.

Nearly a _year_ , and he’s never mentioned her. With John, that means two things: she is completely unimportant, or she is very, _very_ important.

Sherlock shakes his head to clear it. That’s conjecture, not fact. He’s being jealous again. He rewinds a bit, thinks it through again—Mary Morstan knows what it’s like to have to worry about someone who puts themselves in danger. John is obviously worried about this with his family, as demonstrated by his attempts to keep up with them, even as he works himself to the bone. Could it also be that he’s worried about that with—with Sherlock?

Yes, yes that makes sense. Sherlock does not understand John’s desire to run away to the army, even if he knows that it makes John happy. He whines, he complains, he misses John. He makes him feel guilty. And John would need someone—an unbiased third party, unlike his parents and sister who adore Sherlock nearly as much as John himself—with whom he could share these feelings.

John reached out to Mary Morstan, yes, but he did it because of Sherlock.

The wound feels soothed, in a way. John is not conducting a passionate love affair via Skype with some girl that attended their school for the final months of her last year. He just needs someone who understands the military life, and that person is not Sherlock. Sherlock cannot begrudge him that.

Or, well, he can _try_ not to begrudge him that.

His mobile begins to ring in his pocket. He doesn’t even bother to glance at the screen before swiping it open. He lifts it to his ear but says nothing.

John’s voice is frantic on the other end of the line. “It is not what you think, Sherlock, I swear!”

“So you didn’t reach out to your sole friend with a better understanding of military life in order to deal with your feelings of guilt for joining up?” Sherlock says. He is impressed by the calm, steady sound of his voice, when his insides are still in tumult. “Well, then. Do elucidate for me.”

“That’s…” John sounds confused. It would be cute if Sherlock weren’t so upset. “That’s surprisingly accurate. Did you—I mean, how did you deduce that? That’s incredible.”

Sherlock sighs. “I’m not an idiot, John.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I know that we haven’t spoken in so long, and that that must have been an unpleasant surprise, but—“

“I don’t care if you have friends, John.” A blatant lie. If it were up to Sherlock, he would erase every friend in John’s life so that he was the person that John cared about the most. That’s not the type of thing that one is supposed to admit to thinking, however. “I do mind that you choose to reach out to someone else enough times so that your bunkmate knew who she was while ignoring me.”

John sucks in a breath. “I wasn’t ignoring you. I was thinking, like we agreed. I mean, I said we should both take some time…”

“Yes, ‘some’ time. Some, John. You’ve taken weeks. I didn’t need that long.”

John says nothing, just breathes steadily—in and out, in and out. The cadence of his breathing is enough to calm Sherlock. The silence stretches out, however, and the longer it gets, the more his heart aches. He shuts his eyes against it, and says, “For God’s sake, just _say_ it.”

“I don’t know!” John nearly explodes. His voice quiets instantly. “I don’t know what to do. There’s no easy or obvious choice, and even if I love you, I hate that I hurt you all the time, and I hate feeling guilty, and—“

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath. “Even _if_ you love me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Yes, you did.”

John sounds desperate, his voice higher than usual. “That’s not what I meant. I mean, you know how I feel, right? But it’s not so simple as that. You can’t imagine how hard this is for me—“

The tone, the ‘if.’ Sherlock brings up the memory of John’s face on the computer screen, ten minutes earlier. His eyes had sought out Sherlock like Sherlock was a drink of cool water in the middle of a desert. He’d seemed so happy—even know, as he thinks over the memory, he can’t find any false pretence in John’s countenance. It’s all in complete odds to what he hears in John’s voice now: the strained words, the apologies. He reached out to a girl he doesn’t know well to discuss his problems because he didn’t trust Sherlock with them. 

Maybe seeing Sherlock had made him second guess himself, but it’s clear that John has decided.

It’s clear _what_ John has decided.

Sherlock feels his eyes go wet, but he stubbornly refuses to cry. “Just say it, John.”

The line goes quiet, then: “Say what?”

“You don’t want to do it. You don’t want to get back together.”

“I don’t know,” John answers. He sounds as if he is trying not to cry, as well, which makes everything that much harder. “I really don’t. I love you so much, but I’m constantly hurting you, and it’s going to be that way for years. How is that fair?”

Sherlock sniffs. A tear escapes, and he nearly curses. “You’ve decided. I can tell.”

“Maybe I did,” John says. “Maybe I decided, and I didn’t even realize.”

Even though there’s no one there to see him, Sherlock nods. John’s made his choice. They aren’t going to be together again. At least, not any time in the next three or so years.

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is small.

“I’m here,” he says, fighting to keep his tone even.

“You’re my best friend.”

Everything inside Sherlock shatters. “You’re mine, too.”

“I think we should hang up now. I’m going,” John pauses. It sounds as though he’s crying, and Sherlock hates that even more than he hates what’s happening between them. “I’m going to call you. Soon. And we’re going to catch up, and you’ll tell me about uni, and we’ll be friends. Best friends.”

Sherlock swallows thickly. “Okay.”

“We’re going to be fine. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Silence on the phone, then the sound of a choking laugh. “Of course, now you say it, you arsehole.”

Despite himself, Sherlock laughs, too. “I’m a bit contrary.”

“’A bit?’” John laughs a bit, and then falls silent again. “Okay, I’m going to hang up now.”

“Okay.”

Neither of them hang up.

“I will talk to you soon,” John adds.

Sherlock sighs. “Yes. Soon.”

Another long, awkward pause.

“Goddammit,” John swears. “Okay. Goodbye.”

Everything that rises up in Sherlock’s throat—the whispered pleas that John stay on the line, fix this, take back what he’s said—he resolutely swallows down. “Bye.”

There’s the sound of fumbling and then the line goes dead.

Sherlock stays on the porch for a second, wondering what he should do. He’s freezing cold, and he has a feeling that there are three Watsons with their ears pressed against the front door, trying to find out what’s happening. He can’t go back inside right now. He can’t face them like this.

Instead he opens up his contacts, finds Victor’s name and taps it. The call connects in a few seconds.

“Sherlock? Mate, it’s only been like an hour and a half. My dad and I just started dinner.”

That makes sense. He should have seen that, thought of that. What’s wrong with his brain? He chokes back a sob. “Right. Right, sorry.”

Victor’s voice instantly changes. “What’s wrong? I can get you now, if you need me to. You can come have dinner with me and my dad, it will be fine, just let me—“

“No. No, don’t.” Sherlock takes a deep breath, steadies himself. “Just…when you’re done, I’m ready. I’ll see you then.”

Victor starts to ask another question, but Sherlock rings off. He tilts his head back and looks at the sky, his tears freezing on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, go ahead and yell at me, then. I know you all want to.


	9. Chapter 9

Sherlock retreats into his mind. _Think_ , he tells himself. Stop crying. Crying won’t help. Feeling won’t help. Thinking will help.

The only problem is, his thoughts naturally migrate toward John. It’s like the hard drive in his mind has short circuited; no matter how hard he tries to avoid thinking of John, images of him play inside his head on a slideshow. John when they held hands for the first time after escaping Anderson’s gang of Neanderthals, the look on John’s face as he watched Sherlock eating ice cream, John forcing him to go to the Eye—

Before the army, John would never have refused Sherlock. Even if they’d go to different universities, they still would have gotten back together eventually. Sherlock is sure of it. The army is the problem, obviously. It had made John more stubborn, less passive. The pair of them—they had been happy, before. They could have been again.

He’s thinking about John the first time he came back for leave, the way he’d looked when he’d got off the train, when the front door opens.

“Sherlock?” Mrs. Watson steps out into the cold night. He does not turn around to look at her. He can’t look at her, not right now. “I know you’re upset, but please don’t stand out here. It’s so cold, and you’ll catch your death. At least come inside to wait for your friend.”

He doesn’t move. There’s the light sound of her footsteps, and then a gentle arm on his elbow, tugging him back toward the house.

“I’m not accepting ‘no’ as an answer,” she tells him.

The heat from the house hits Sherlock all over, and he realizes that, in his haste, he left his coat inside. He keeps missing things, overlooking them. The past few weeks have been hellish; his preoccupation with John has overwritten everything in his life. He doesn’t feel like himself anymore. He’s never been so unobservant, so obtuse.

Mrs. Watson ushers him into the family room, depositing him on the couch next to the Christmas tree. His brain recalls last Christmas at the Watsons, and pretending to marry Harry, and he hates his stupid brain for doing this to him.

A moment later, Mrs. Watson returns with a cup of tea and his coat. She sits the tea before him. “Now, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to, but you _do_ have to drink that. You’re freezing.”

He obediently picks up the mug and takes a sip. It’s too hot, too sweet. He doesn’t care. “Thank you,” he says.

She hesitates, and then sits beside him. When he puts his tea back on the table, she places a comforting hand on his forearm. “I want to apologize. I had no idea that he had been—well, you know. He hasn’t mentioned…” she sighs, withdraws her hand. “But then, John has always been so secretive. Please believe me, Sherlock, if I had known, I never would have subjected you to this.”

“Thank you,” he says, managing to work the words out of his tight throat. “I know that.”

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He shakes his head. Mrs. Watson is wonderful—she is kind and warm and patient, but she is also John’s mother. No matter what she says, and no matter how much she may like him personally, she will always side with her son. As she should. He wishes his own mother would do as much.

Something sad touches the corner of Mrs. Watson’s mouth, and she reaches up and brushes a hand through his hair. “I just want you to know that we’re always here for you. Really, we are. Do you…” she pauses, chews on her lip. “Would you like me to leave you alone?”

Part of him wants to say _no, don’t do it, don’t leave me alone, everyone is always leaving me alone,_ but he tamps it down. Alone is what he has. Alone protects him.

“Please,” he tells her, and refuses to feel regret when she nods and then gets up and leaves the room.

\--

Thirty minutes later, tires squeal to a stop in front of the Watsons’ house. Sherlock turns to look out the windows behind him, but there’s no doubt who it is. He watches as Victor practically falls out of his car onto the curb, running up the drive to the front door and mashing the buzzer down.

Mrs. Watson’s hesitant steps echo down the hallway to the front door. She hovers before it, and then turns to look at Sherlock, still sitting ten feet away in the other room. “It’s your friend, I’m assuming. Do you want—would you rather answer it yourself?”

Sherlock shrugs listlessly.

Mrs. Watson tugs the door open. Victor’s monologue is instantaneous and can probably be heard the entire way down the block. “Is Sherlock still here? He called me, and he sounded upset, and hi, I’m Victor, by the way, but can you tell me where he is?”

From his place on the couch, Sherlock rolls his eyes. He can always count on Victor to make the worst possible introduction. At least he didn’t bring a vicious dog to maul Mrs. Watson.

She gives him a sidelong look, clearly trying to ask without asking whether or not he wants to be alone a bit more, or if she should let Victor in. He waves a hand, indicating that it’s fine, and then stands when Mrs. Watson lets him into the house.

Victor sags with relief when he sees him. He rushes forward as if to hug him but holds himself back at the last moment. Sherlock isn’t sure what he appreciates more: his initial thought or his restraint. Victor’s eyes rove over his face, checking him, trying to figure out the situation from the way Sherlock looks at him. He sees nothing, Sherlock can tell; Victor will never have any particular gift for deduction. His blond hair is wild and unkempt, as if he’d been tugging at it as he drove.

He is worried. Victor is worried about him. Victor cares. They’ve been friends for nearly two months, but this still surprises Sherlock. He suddenly wishes that Victor hadn’t hesitated to hug him.

“I’m fine,” he says, in response to the question Victor doesn’t ask. They both know he’s lying, but Victor isn’t Sherlock: he won’t be able to tell what’s really happened, he’ll need to be told, and Sherlock doesn’t want to tell him here. Or at all, really. He never wants to say John’s name again.

That’s another lie. He loves John. John is his best and closest friend—not that there are that many people on that list, but still. One day, this won’t bother either one of them. It’s only too bad that that day can’t be today because Sherlock wants to curl up in a ball and stay that way until he dies.

Dramatic. Overemotional. This isn’t him. God, he hates this.

He resolves to never have a broken heart again.

“Can we go?” he asks Victor, who nods so enthusiastically his hair bounces in front of his eyes. He slips into his coat and does up the buttons. He glances at Mrs. Watson, notices Mr. Watson and Harry hovering at the end of the hallway, where it joins the kitchen. All three of them look at him with big, sad eyes; it’s the same expression John always gives him when he feels bad about something, and for a moment, Sherlock hates them for it. He clears his throat. “Thank you for dinner.”

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mrs. Watson closes the space between them and crushes him in a hug. He isn’t sure what to do; she’s pinned his arms, so he can’t hug back, and he’s not sure he would even if he could. It’s not like the first hug she gave him when he arrived. This one is desperate and reminds him that this family, these people—they aren’t his anymore, not in the way they once were.

Still, Mrs. Watson seems to find some measure of comfort from embracing him, and he can’t find the heart to tell her to stop it. She murmurs into his ear, “You are not allowed to cut us out, do you hear me? I am going to text you all the time, young man.”

The corners of his mouth tilt up, despite himself. “Alright.”

“Would it be okay if Harry said goodbye?” She pulls away, looks up at him. John must get his height from his mother. “It’s alright if you’d rather just go, of course, but—“

“It’s fine,” he tells her.

She looks over her shoulder at the girl and nods toward Sherlock. “Come on, then.”

Harry bolts down the hallway and throws her arms around Sherlock, pressing her face into his stomach. He can feel Victor’s eyes on his back, staring in surprise as he allows this girl to manhandle him. Sherlock ignores him and instead stoops down so that he can look at Harry’s face.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” he says, not sure what else to do.

Instead of being comforted, however, Harry frowns and takes a step back. “Don’t lie,” she tells him. Her eyes are red, like she’s about to cry, and Sherlock promises himself that he will get her a birthday present and give it to her in person, if only so this isn’t the last moment he ever sees her face. It’d be easier to just delete her, but he doesn’t think he has the heart for it. Plus, deleting things that relate back to John is practically impossible.

He pats her cheek then stands and nods at Mr. Watson, who nods back. When he turns around to Victor, he finds his friend is watching him carefully with a look on his face that Sherlock has never seen before. Victor motions behind him at his car, parked haphazardly in the street in front of the Watson’s house. “I’m ready when you are.”

Sherlock swallows thickly. “Alright, let’s go.”

They leave the Watson’s house. Sherlock does not look back.

\--

The ride back to Cambridge starts out in silence. Victor turns on the radio, but Sherlock immediately shuts it off. He then leans back into his seat and watches the world pass by through the passenger window.

Victor says nothing when Sherlock switches off his music. He does not comment on the fact that Sherlock has curled himself into a ball in his seat, his arms wrapping tightly around his legs. He remains silent and drives. Sherlock appreciates him immensely.

They are twenty minutes outside the city when Victor finally says, “I’m assuming you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Excellent deduction.”

“Alright,” Victor nods, then passes a slow-moving car. “Well, is there anything you want to _do_ about it?”

This grabs Sherlock’s attention. What is Victor asking? “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know—grab a pint, go seduce a guy that looks just like him and have a revenge shag, something like that. Just, you know, blow off some steam, feel better.”

Sherlock is not overly fond of beer, and the thought of touching—or being touched by—some sort of false John doppelganger makes him want to gag. He wants to yell at Victor for even daring to make the suggestion, but the part of him that has been socialized to normal human behavior (thanks to a year of John Watson constantly by his side, in his head, telling him what he ought not to do) knows that that would be a bit not good. Instead he sighs and shakes his head.

“Right, then. Well, do you want to stay the night at mine? You can even take my bed, and I’ll stay on the sofa. That way you won’t have to deal with your God awful roommate, at least.”

The only thing that could make Sherlock’s night worse would be having to endure the mouth breathing of Fat Oliver. He can’t find the words to express his gratefulness and instead nods mutely, shrugging in closer to himself.

They’re silent as they pull into the city. It’s still rather early—people are out and about on the streets, heading to the pub, going to late dinners. Sherlock blinks, remembers that Victor had been at his _own_ dinner. How does he keep forgetting these things? What has John done to him, how has he broken him?

“What happened with your father?” Sherlock asks, swiveling his head to look at Victor, whose mouth goes into a tight line.

“Well, he wasn’t best pleased when I suddenly stood up at dinner and announced that I had to leave, but needs must,” he shrugs, sends Sherlock a forced smile. “It’s fine. I mean, I told him that you were in trouble, and that I had to go and pick you up. I think I have to drive down there tomorrow now, which sucks, but whatever. I wasn’t going to just leave you there, Sherlock. Not with you sounding like you did. Don’t be ridiculous.”

He says it so simply, Sherlock thinks. Like it’s an obvious thing, that someone would go out of their way to help Sherlock Holmes, to befriend Sherlock Holmes. Victor is strange—he seems so normal, so average. His grades are average, his friends are average. He grew up with a bit of money, Sherlock has deduced, but even at Cambridge, that makes him decidedly average.

And yet he is consistently kind to Sherlock when very few people ever have been, and it’s—confusing. How does someone so painfully _normal_ also manage to like him? How does he say these things to Sherlock, treat Sherlock like a friend, and not know that this is one of the strangest things to ever happen in Sherlock’s life?

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. The words are too small, but they have to do.

Victor hangs a left, his eyes on the road as he nods in acknowledgement. “Of course, mate.”

A moment later, they arrive at Victor’s house. He lives in a shitty little place close to campus that he shares with two “total twats” (Victor’s words). Victor parallel parks on the street and then hops out, throwing his door closed. He locks the car with his key and then moves around it to the pavement, where Sherlock is waiting for him.

“Right, then. The night is young, but I know you may not be feeling the best. So, what would you like to do? We can go upstairs and spend the whole night watching Netflix or listening to sad violin music or whatever the hell would make you feel better, or I could order a pizza, or…?”

Sherlock says nothing. All of those options sound horrendous, but he doesn’t want to offend Victor, not right now, not when he’s so obviously doing his best to be kind.

“Oh, come on. There has to be something that you want to do, something that will take your mind off of all this,” Victor prompts. “Anything, seriously. You’ve earned it.”

Something comes to mind. Sherlock bites his lip and stares at the ground, considering. When he speaks, his voice is rough and hesitant. “Could we…”

Victor seems encouraged by Sherlock’s saying anything at all. “Yes?”

“Could we get some cocaine?”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Sherlock dares to peek up through his fringe. Victor looks surprised, but not opposed. He shifts a bit on his feet, seeming to consider it. “Well, I mean, yeah, but we both know how you feel about Rodney, and I…” he shrugs, “I don’t know anyone else, for that. But I can find someone, if that’s what you want.”

“You don’t mind?”

Something sad touches Victor’s eyes. He reaches out and brushes a hand down Sherlock’s arm. “Of course not! We’ll just go to a club, or something, you know there are always dealers hanging around in those. And we don’t have to stay, of course, not if you don’t want to, of course you won’t want to, I’m an idiot. Or I don’t know, I suppose I could ask one of my roommates if they know someone, and—“

“Victor, shut up,” Sherlock cuts him off, leaning back against his car. “A club is fine, it’ll be faster than going through layers of people at the recommendation of your idiot roommates. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get in, anyway, so it doesn’t matter where we go.”

Victor groans. “That’s right, you’re seventeen. Please don’t remind me of that. It always makes me feel creepy when you do.”

“You’re only twenty. And I turn eighteen in less than a month.”

“Doesn’t matter, I still feel like an old man,” he grins at Sherlock’s affronted face. “Anyway, don’t be ridiculous. Of course they’ll let you in.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You don’t know that. I should just wait in the car and save us both the trouble.”

“I do know that, actually. Bloody hell, mate, have you ever looked in a mirror? And besides, you constantly dress as though you’re on the way to someone’s bar mitzvah, so it’s fine. Maybe not the most appropriate thing for where we’re going, but they’ll definitely let you in,” Victor twirls his keys around his finger. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

Sherlock pushes himself off of Victor’s car, frowning. “Why?”

Victor’s already at the door, fiddling with the lock. “Because some of us weren’t born quite as pretty as you and have to change in order to be allowed into clubs.”

The door swings open and Victor turns, nodding toward the dark hallway with his head. “Well, come on then. I’ll only be a mo, and then we can get to the portion of the evening where we cheer you up.”

Sherlock sweeps past Victor into his house. No lights on; Victor’s roommates don’t even appear to be home. For a moment, it’s like it’s only Sherlock there, like he’s alone. He closes his eyes, feels the completeness of the dark around him. He does not think about John.

Victor closes the door behind them and flicks on the lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not update next week! I am going to visit my family for a week and do not plan to take my laptop (and there's no way I'm borrowing my parents' laptop to write teenlock HAHA NO), so unfortunately there may be a slight break. I may try to write it on my tablet, but I make no promises.
> 
> Let me know what you thought of this chapter, and come say hello on tumblr!


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock stands outside the club, looking thoroughly unimpressed. Victor grins at him, his tongue between his teeth. Back at his apartment, he’d changed into some indecently tight jeans and a deep v-neck tee-shirt. Sherlock thought the outfit ridiculous when he first saw it, but now that they’ve arrived outside of the club--a gay club, which Victor failed to mention beforehand--he sees that it was actually a good pick. A little more casual than the standard, maybe, but he still fits in. The guys hanging outside in a line are brightly-coloured and flashy, and although he’s loathe to admit it, Sherlock looks overdressed by comparison.

 

He straightens his shoulders, refusing to show any discomfort. This will likely be a short trip, so it doesn’t matter if he sticks out from the crowd. Really, he does that on a fairly regular basis, anyway. Victor notices the movement and quirks a brow, then grabs Sherlock by the elbow and drags him to the side of the building, where a gaggle of men are smoking and chatting.

 

“Here,” Victor says, pushing Sherlock back against the wall. Someone catcalls and Victor flips them off before reaching for Sherlock’s tie. “Take this off, it’s doing you no favors.”

 

“What?” Sherlock asks, frowning. He likes that tie. Victor’s hands grapple with the knot at his throat. “What are you doing?”

 

“Fixing you.”

 

The tie falls loose, and Victor yanks it from under Sherlock’s collar, shoving it into his own pocket. He then reaches up and undoes the first three buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. Taking a step back, he casts a critical eye over the new picture he’s created.

 

“Well, it’s still a little stuffy, but it’s definitely better,” he nods, affirming his own opinion.

 

Sherlock rubs at the exposed part of his chest. “This is ludicrous.”

 

A ginger man in a bright pink shirt leans in to their conversation and leers at Sherlock. “Oh, honey, he did you a favour.”

 

Victor steps in and grabs Sherlock’s hand, pulling him back toward the front. The group behind them lets out a chorus of boos, but the noise disappears as they round the corner and head back to the start of the queue.

 

“Hi,” Victor says to the bouncer, putting on a flirtatious smile. It’s a bit tight on his face; he’s still not comfortable flirting with men, despite his preferences. The bouncer doesn’t seem to notice, however, and he smiles back. “My friend, here?” He motions at Sherlock. “It’s his birthday. His eighteenth, actually, and it’s kind of a big deal, him coming out and all, and would you mind letting us skip the queue? Please?”

 

The bouncer leans past them, stares down at the long line of men and women waiting behind them, but then shrugs and moves out of the way. “Alright, but only because it’s his birthday.”

 

At that, Victor tugs Sherlock through the front door. Once they’re inside, he drops Sherlock’s hand and rubs his own against his jeans. “Sorry for the sweaty palms. I thought if I acted a little territorial it would keep the creepier guys away.”

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says absently. He immediately tunes out the sound of Victor’s voice, as well as the pounding bass of the pop song blaring through the speakers. The inside of his head is perfect silence as he scans the mass of writhing bodies, eyes settling on the drug dealer in the corner.

 

He tunes back in to find that Victor is babbling away, talking about drinks and a fit bloke toward the front of the queue and whether or not they have time for a dance. He rolls his eyes when he notices the way that Sherlock has only just started listening, but there’s a smile in the corner of his mouth.

 

“I’m assuming you found the drugs, then?”

 

“Over there,” Sherlock points to the man he initially noticed. He’s obviously here to deal, not to dance: his baggy jeans have a hole in the knee that is from repeated use rather than artful design, and he’s wearing a sideways cap. He sticks out from the crowd even more than Sherlock; it’s rather a wonder that he got into the club at all. Probably some sort of deal with one of the managers, if not the owner.

 

Victor nods. He puts a gentle hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and presses him against the wall. His smile is apologetic. “Stay over here, okay? I don’t want to spook the guy by bringing a minor.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes but doesn’t move from his spot. He has plenty of data to absorb from this position, anyway. There are a hundred men and women dancing on the floor, couples of all genders pressed up against each other, laughing and smiling. He deduces them at a rapid-fire pace: the girl by herself at the bar just got out of a serious relationship, if her jewellery is any indication, but she’s regretting having pushed herself to come here, thinks it is too soon. The two male bartenders behind her are casual fuckbuddies--the ginger one thinks he’s in love, but the blond is not serious about their relationship at all. The drag queen in the centre of the dance floor is breaking in new shoes and she is struggling to look like she’s having fun when her feet are killing her.

 

It’s an interesting crowd, an interesting experience. Sherlock would never have gone to one of these places without Victor. John was never interested in embracing his own homosexuality. He’d always claimed that Sherlock was some sort of exception, which was flattering, Sherlock supposed, but it did often leave him feeling vulnerable. He’d never have admitted it, of course, but every time John’s eyes had casually lingered on a pretty girl, it had hurt him.

 

That’s over now, though. Sherlock swallows against the rapidly rising lump in his throat and closes his eyes tight. He shuts out the music and the laughter and the sound of the couple snogging in the corner to his right and refuses to think about John and the stupid army and how he hates everything and—

 

A hand on his arm. He rips his eyes open, desperate for the distraction Victor brings. “Vic—“

 

The man looking down at him is not Victor. He is in his late thirties, balding and very self-conscious about it—his hair is carefully styled to cover the thinning areas, with lots of product. His tank-top shows off his arms, which are nicely sculpted. He thinks they’re his best feature, and he’s right.

 

“Hey there,” the man grins down at him. His teeth are crooked. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

 

He comes often, then. Strange choice, for a man his age—one look around the club reveals mostly university-aged patrons. He’s not the oldest person Sherlock has spotted in the room, but he’s definitely on the higher end of the spectrum. So: a balding man who is in denial about his own ageing. He’s trying to reclaim his own youth by partying with people substantially younger than him, doing his best to entice them with his good physique. Bad break up? Possibly. He has the indents of a ring around one of his left ring finger—left by a long-time partner, probably, and now he’s feeling desperate and unwanted.

 

Boring.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock drawls, looking over the man’s shoulder. Victor is talking to the drug dealer, and he hasn’t noticed that Sherlock has been approached. “Well, you won’t be seeing me here again, that I promise you.”

 

The man does not take the hint. He moves in a step closer, looming over Sherlock. Sherlock isn’t used to being loomed over; he finds he doesn’t much like the experience. “I heard what your little friend said to the bouncer outside. It’s your birthday, right? How do you plan to celebrate?”

 

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

 

“I’d like to make it my business.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “There’s nothing wrong with being bald. You’ll find someone else, or he’ll call you and say he’s made a terrible mistake, or something like that.”

 

The man stumbles back. His shoulders go round, shrinking him before Sherlock’s eyes. He traces his thumb around his left ring finger unconsciously. “What—I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Do you know Tony?”

 

“I don’t. But you have marks on your ring finger and a new haircut, which you’ve styled to hide your growing baldness. Plus, hanging out at a club like this? You were left for someone younger, then, and so you are here trying to get back your own.” Sherlock watches as Victor concludes his deal across the room. When he turns to see someone talking to Sherlock, he frowns and starts to make his way toward them. “That being said, I’m not interested in being your revenge fuck. I’m over half your age.”

 

“But I…” The man splutters. “How did you…”

 

Sherlock practically growls in frustration. “Were you not listening? I _told_ you how I knew. Now go away, I’m having an atrocious enough evening as it is.”

 

As the man blinks dumbly at him, Victor sidles up to his side. He stands too close and wraps a possessive arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Is this guy bothering you, love?” This is not Victor’s worse idea. The older man, who had already begun to back away, practically flees when Victor places a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek and whispers in his ear, “Is he gone?”

 

Sherlock nods, and Victor instantly backs away. “Thanks,” says Sherlock.

 

“No problem. That guy was way too old for you,” Victor shrugs off the thanks and pats the front pocket of his ridiculously tight jeans. “Got you a present. Come on, we can cut it in the toilets.”

The pair of them weave through the crowd of thrusting, dancing bodies to the toilets in the far corner of the room. The ladies’ loo has a long line that they shove their way through in order to get to the men’s. Inside, two men are at the urinals. The sounds of another two trading blow jobs in the stall by the window echoes through the room. 

 

Victor wrinkles his nose. He fishes the baggie out of his pocket and wraps Sherlock’s hand around it. One of the men at the urinals lifts an eyebrow as he finishes his business, but he doesn’t say a word to them as he leaves. Sherlock clenches a fist around the bag of powder, hesitating.

 

“Aren’t you going to indulge?” he asks. He’s proud of how his voice sounds: strong, normal. No hint of the nerves thrumming beneath his skin.

 

To his surprise, Victor shakes his head. “Nope. That’s a little gift, from me to you. I figure I’ll stay sober and watch out for you. You had a shit enough night as is, and this is supposed to make you feel better, not worse. I reckon that one of us needs to have our wits about us, and I want you to have fun, so I guess that’s me.”

 

Sherlock releases his death grip on the baggie and looks at it in his open palm. His mind races—Victor is thoughtful. Victor does things without expecting anything in return. Victor wants him to be happy and safe. Victor is a good friend.

 

Some terrible part of his mind says: _And you’d cast him off in a minute for John._

 

It’s true. If it came down to John or Victor, he would choose John every time. The thing is, he tells himself, he does not have to choose. He can have more than one friend. People stupider than him manage it all the time.

 

He swallows his thoughts down, locks them somewhere deep inside his mind palace. “Okay,” he says. One of the men in the stalls orgasms with a cry, and the two promptly switch places. Sherlock does not move.

 

Victor gives him a small smile. “Do you know how…?”

 

The answer is no, not really. The last time he did this, Seb Wilkes had brought all the supplies with him, and they’d had the luxury of privacy. This, however, is public and strange.

 

“Cut with a credit card, and here, use this,” Victor pulls a compact mirror out of his back pocket and places it in Sherlock’s hand before shoving him lightly in the direction of the open stall next to the blow job men. “And a rolled up note should do it. Do you need me to go in with you and sho—“

 

“No,” Sherlock cuts him off. He swans into the open stall, ignoring the sloppy sucking sounds and muffled groans happening to his right. He fishes out his wallet, removing a crisp bill and his credit card. Looking at the shiny plastic, he realizes that he can’t remember the last time he talked to his father.

 

He pours coke out into a line on the mirror, cuts it with the card, and uses the bill to snort it. When exits the stall, the world is on fire.

 

\--

 

“The guys next to me in the stall,” he tells Victor ten minutes later as they dance in the middle of the floor. “They met here tonight.”

 

A flash of orange light illuminates Victor’s face, then turns blue. Victor grins at him in the myriad of colours, and it’s wonderful and different and fascinating, and everything about this is the best thing Sherlock has ever done. “Did you seriously deduce the blow job guys?”

 

Sherlock moves in closer, so that he can shout over the music and into Victor’s ear. “The one on his knees when we came in—he was bored. The guy on the toilet was moaning, panting, but he was silent except for the sucking noises. He didn’t even bother to pretend. It was purely a means to an end for him, the end being a blow job for himself.”

 

“Right,” Victor laughs.

 

“The guy on the toilet, however. New on the scene. Little bit older, but he’s only recently come to terms with his sexuality.”

 

Victor spins them around and steps in close when he notices another man leering at Sherlock. Sherlock considers telling him that it’s fine, he doesn’t need to be so protective—after all, he’d noticed that man’s blatant staring what feels like _hours_ ago. It wasn’t, though. It was seven minutes and thirty-six seconds. Sherlock knows because everything in his mind is racing at optimum speeds. He knows the ticking of every second like he knows the girl to his right suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and is struggling against a panic attack and the man at the door is wearing women’s underwear. In this moment, he feels like it’s possible he knows everything.

 

“You can’t possibly be sure of that,” Victor yells, leaning in closer than necessary. He’s still trying to ward off the creepy man in the corner. In the part of his mind palace reserved for Victor, Sherlock adds a note that says “chivalrous.”

 

Sherlock moves so that his back is to Victor’s front. “It was his shoes. They were brand new, so he was trying to impress, but they were cheap. A knock off of the latest style. He has very stereotypical ideas of what it means to be gay, probably because he only recently realized that he was.” He does a turn, so that they are once again chest to chest, practically breathing each other’s air. “Also, when they swapped places, the bored man was practically silent. Bad fellatio technique, then. He could just be bad at it, but a novice at giving blow jobs _and_ those shoes? New to the scene, most likely.”

 

Victor shakes his head and moves a step back. “You’re insane.”

 

“No,” Sherlock tells him, “this is the most sane I’ve ever felt!”

 

“Come on, let’s go get you some water. I think you need to rehydrate.”

 

There’s no point in resisting, so Sherlock allows himself to be grabbed by the wrist and guided through the crowd back to the bar. The bartender looks annoyed to have to take the time to fix them two glasses of water, but he does. Sherlock sucks his down in one long gulp.

 

“God, if only the world could always be like this.”

 

He doesn’t realize that he’s said it aloud until Victor responds. “You feel better, then?”

 

Sherlock nods, leaning back against the bar and watching the brightly coloured lights flash across the ceiling. “It’s like—it’s like the world and my brain are going at the same pace for the first time ever, and everything is clear and perfect.”

 

“You must be so fucking high to say that to me,” Victor laughs. He grabs at the neckline of his shirt and pulls it away from his chest, fanning himself with it. “It’s hot as fuck in here. I’m glad you’re cheering up.”

 

Distantly, Sherlock considers why he was sad. John. John made him sad. They broke up, and John broke his heart, but strangely, even remembering that doesn’t bother him at the moment. Because John and him, they’re inevitable, and he thinks he can be patient and wait for John. Or not. That’s okay, too. Why was he sad, again? He wants to dance.

 

“I want to dance,” he declares.

 

Victor downs the rest of his water and leaves the empty glass on the bar. He pulls at Sherlock’s wrist, then drops it once they get to the edge of the crowd. He shouts into Sherlock’s ear, “You’re probably going to have to take more soon, if you want to stay this high. Cocaine is fun, but it doesn’t last long.”

 

“More, then!” Sherlock shouts back. He isn’t ready for this to be over. He wants this to last forever.

 

“Alright, but I’m taking you home when it starts to wear off again. No need to overdo it.”

 

The club is too hot, and Sherlock feels overheated. He pushes at the sleeves of his shirt and undoes another button. Half of his chest is hanging out, it seems, and he doesn’t care. “Maybe I want to overdo it.”

 

Victor nudges him with an elbow, chuckling. “And _that_ is why I stayed sober. Now go on, I want to get back to dancing.”

 

“You’re growing bolder with your sexuality, but only when you’re in Cambridge. Dumping Laura empowered you to come out of the closet, in some respects, even if you’re still terrified of telling your father for fear of being cut off from the family business,” Sherlock yells in Victor’s direction. “You’ve wanted to try this place for weeks, and my being dumped gave you the perfect excuse.”

 

“Oh, stop deducing me and go snort the rest of your blow,” Victor says. The words are impatient, but the tone is not. His eyes are crinkled in the corners as he smiles. “And her name is Lindsey, and you know it.”

 

Sherlock chooses to ignore this (because it’s true, not that he’d ever admit it) and fights his way through the mass of people blocking the bathroom. The bored man from before is in the same stall with a different person. Sherlock snorts another line in the empty stall and then knocks on the door of the occupied one before he leaves, calling out that the man on his knees has an impressive refractory period. There’s a bit of swearing from inside the stall, but Sherlock breezes out the door before they manage to disentangle themselves and finds Victor just where he said he would be.

 

Only he’s been joined by someone.

 

Sherlock is not an idiot. Objectively, Victor is attractive. He’s blonde and tall and has the kind of smile that seems to take over his whole face. As a fit bloke in a gay club, he is bound to garner a certain amount of attention. This night, however, is not about Victor. It’s about distracting Sherlock, which Victor can clearly not do if he chooses to snog this stranger—and from the open and easy set of his shoulders, it’s obvious that he’s considering it.

 

Coming up behind the pair, Sherlock wraps his arms around Victor’s waist. He sets his chin on his shoulder and blows into his ear. “I’m back.”

 

Victor stiffens beneath him. The man hitting on him—works in finance, just bought a new car, has a nasty case of genital herpes, _you’re welcome, Victor_ —rolls his eyes and walks away.

 

“The fuck, Sherlock?” Victor moves out of his grasp. “He was cute.”

 

“He has a serious sexually transmitted disease, and he wasn’t planning on warning you about it.” Sherlock grins wolfishly. “Ask me how I know.”

 

“I don’t think I will,” Victor replies. He shakes his head, fond and exasperated. “Well, thanks. Not that I would have had sex with him. I mean, I’ve never even kissed a man, and—you know, baby steps. But still. Good looking out, and all. A few more dances and then we’ll head home?”

 

They head back out onto the dance floor. The noise around them increases exponentially, and they move closer together in order to be able to hear one another. The bass is pounding—it reminds Sherlock of all those terrible parties John used to drag him to at Molly Hooper’s house, only instead of being awful, it’s wonderful and fun and why did Sherlock ever think dancing would be a waste of time—

 

Victor is watching someone across the room. Not STD man, thankfully. No, someone younger, better looking, who is watching him back. He doesn’t plan to do anything about it, Sherlock can tell. He shrinks back behind Sherlock when the other man starts to walk out onto the dance floor.

 

It doesn’t make sense. This one is completely disease-free. It seems strange that Victor would talk to someone he found only cute but won’t approach another person at whom he can’t stop staring. Not that Sherlock wants Victor to talk to anyone else—he wants the exact opposite, really—but he can’t seem to deduce _why_ his friend would act in such an irrational manner, so he asks, “Why are you hiding? Don’t you want to snog him?”

 

“How…” Victor starts, then stops and shakes his head. His blond curls are sweaty. “I am not going to bother to ask. I don’t know, Sherlock, it’s kind of—I’m nervous about kissing a guy, it’s not a crime.”

 

“Kissing boys is easy,” Sherlock declares. His voice sounds loud as the song fades out and a few people around them snicker. Sherlock ignores them. “Here, I’ll show you.”

 

And then he presses his lips against Victor’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FINALLY. In my original outline, this kiss happened like five chapters ago. This story is ending up far longer than I ever imagined!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed! Please let me know your thoughts. :) Come be a tumblr friend!


	11. Chapter 11

The kiss lingers for one single moment before Victor turns his head away and takes an abrupt step back. “What the hell?”

That seems wrong, Sherlock thinks. Victor is supposed to kiss him back. “I was helping.”

“No, Sherlock, you weren’t,” Victor sighs and then wraps a hand around Sherlock’s elbow and drags him off the dance floor and toward the door. “Come on, let’s get our things from the coat check and get out of here.”

The lights are bright in his eyes and the lesbian couple they just passed has noticed the tension between them and is listening in to try to discern what’s going on and why won’t Victor kiss him? He did for a moment, at least, which means that he doesn’t find Sherlock entirely repulsive. Victor roots around in his pocket and pulls out a ten pound note and Sherlock’s abandoned tie before he finally comes across their number for the coat check and hands it to the bored girl behind the counter. She is straight and only works here on weekends to support her burgeoning prescription pill habit.

Victor shoves Sherlock’s coat into his arms and pushes him toward the front door. The bouncer who let them in hovers inside, now that the line has gone down. He gives them a once over. “Going home so soon?”

“Someone’s had too much fun,” Victor says, smiling genially while urging Sherlock out onto the street.

The bouncer winks at Victor. “No such thing.”

 _Winking_ Sherlock makes a mental note to himself to stop doing that. “Your wife knows that you’re a homosexual,” he interjects.

He is only able to appreciate the look of pure shock on the bouncer’s face for a second before Victor shoves him forward, forcing him into a run. They both sprint for the end of the block before hanging a right and hiding around the corner.

“You thought that man was going to retaliate, but his reflexes aren’t that quick. He was going to need at least another twenty seconds to process what I said before it even occurred to him to punch me,” Sherlock informs Victor. He smiles a bit and then moves to add how he knows all of that—except Victor isn’t listening. He’s glaring at Sherlock.

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“For the love of—you kissed me, Sherlock, and I want to know why.”

Tedious. To answer that question properly would require Sherlock to examine his actions from the last few hours, starting with his rather traumatizing conversation with John, and that sounds terrible. He doesn’t want to do terrible things, not right now, not when the world is bright and fun and finally moving at his pace. Why is Victor being so _boring_? 

He fidgets and says nothing. Victor prompts, “Say _something_ , at least.”

“You’d never kissed a man. You expressed interest in doing so, as well as nerves surrounding the event,” Sherlock explains as he plays with his still half-unbuttoned shirt. “I decided to help.”

Heaving a great sigh, Victor turns and starts to walk down the street, Sherlock following behind. His car is at the end of the block, and each step is a chore. The world feels like its dimming, which is ridiculous, as he should have a decent amount of high left, but Victor is angry and he doesn’t understand _why_ and emotions are bloody useless. There is no rational explanation for Victor’s reaction. It was just a kiss, after all, and a very brief one, at that. It practically doesn’t count.

“Did you not like it?” Sherlock asks to Victor’s back, watching as his friend pauses and looks back at him, jaw agape. “What?”

Victor clenches his eyes shut and seems to mutter something to himself. When he finds his voice, it sounds strained and unnatural. “You really don’t—I mean, how can you not get this? It was my first kiss with a man, and you just…took it. You didn’t even ask me.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “That’s so sentimental.” 

“Whatever,” Victor says. His voice is flat and cold. It matches the nighttime, the growing feeling in Sherlock’s stomach. “Come on, I’m taking you back to mine so you can sleep this off.”

It doesn’t make sense, Sherlock thinks. He had been lonely and sad and Victor had taken care of him, helped him. Sherlock had wanted to do the same. He doesn’t understand why it matters who the kiss came from, as long as Victor got it out of the way and therefore feels more comfortable embracing his budding sexuality. 

He opens his mouth to tell Victor all of this, but none of it seems to be able to come out. The words jam together and get stuck in his throat; he can barely breathe around them. How does he explain—what can he say to make Victor understand that this, right now, is his way of helping? Suddenly, the answer is clear. Sherlock takes two quick steps and closes the gap between them before leaning across to capture Victor’s mouth again. 

His hand goes up to the nape of Victor’s neck, tangling his fingers in Victor’s blond curls so that when Victor tries to turn his head, Sherlock holds him in place. Kissing is brilliant, Sherlock decides, especially on cocaine. Cocaine makes everything better. How come no one ever told him that before?

Tentatively, he parts his lips, letting his tongue slip past. To his surprise, Victor lets out a low noise and then pulls away, panting lightly. “You’re as high as a kite,” he says.

“I hate it when you point out the obvious,” Sherlock’s voice is low and rough in his own ears as he dips his head to reinitiate the kiss. Victor drops his chin so that Sherlock’s mouth falls somewhere on the bridge of his nose. He lets out a small, shuddery breath before stepping back.

“No, stop. I mean it.”

Set shoulders, resolute tone. He does mean it. Curious, Sherlock cocks his head. “But _why_?”

When Victor catches his eyes again, he looks sad. No, that can’t be—and yet, as Sherlock scans him again, he comes to the same conclusion. The downturned curve of Victor’s mouth, the knot between his eyebrows: Victor is _sad_.

He shouldn’t be sad. No one should be sad, not right now, especially not Victor. Perhaps Victor needs some cocaine. He goes to suggest it when Victor begins to talk and says, “I think you actually mean well, you know, but this is a terrible idea. It’s hard to go back from this space, with a friend. There are lines, you know, that I don’t think we should cross. Plus, you’re in no condition for—I mean, you’re a wreck about John, don’t deny it.”

“I don’t feel like a wreck right now,” Sherlock points out.

“Yes, but when the high is gone…” Victor sighs and scratches at the back of his neck. He stares up at the sky for a moment, looking lost. “You’re just a kid, still. Sometimes I forget that.”

The accusation chafes. “I’m eighteen!’

“You’re _almost_ eighteen, and I didn’t mean it as an insult. Hell, I still feel like a kid most of the time, too. I’m just saying, you know, that I wish that hadn’t happened. I value our friendship.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Sentiment.”

The frown on Victor’s face becomes more pronounced as he nods and turns back to his car, and something terrible wells up inside of Sherlock. He thinks it might be guilt. The click of the door unlocking settles him back in reality as he slips into the passenger’s seat, suddenly feeling far too sober. They drive back to Victor’s house in silence.

\--

Light. Strange, Sherlock thinks. His dorm room window faces the west, so he never has to deal with the light in the morning. He’s not there, then, which leads him to wonder: where is he? Coarse material under his skin, upholstery fabric, rather than sheets, and he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes—the previous night comes to him in a rush as his brain shakes away the fuzziness of sleep.

Last night. The Watsons. Dinner. John.

The club. Victor. Cocaine. The _kiss_.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he tears away the blanket draped across him, dumping it on the floor. He sits up quickly and then groans. He doesn’t feel right—his head is heavy on his shoulders, his muscles ache. It feels as though he has a mild cold. He rubs at his temples, eyes closed as he reviews everything that happened the night before.

John ended things. He actually did it. He broke them apart, made it permanent. John doesn’t want Sherlock anymore. The thought threatens to make everything inside him shatter, and is then followed by another just as upsetting: _he’d made a move on Victor._

Victor! Useful, nice Victor who bought him cocaine and then stayed sober in order to take care of him. Who doesn’t think his deductions are annoying and who seems to actually _like_ him, not just tolerate him. Who had said he was nervous about kissing a man and who Sherlock had—

Sherlock swallows the panic rising through his throat, forcing himself into a state of calm. He can’t afford to feel right now, or to worry about Victor. He needs to get out, retreat. Maybe after a few days he’ll send Victor some sort of apology by text. Even as he thinks that, though, he knows he won’t actually do it. He hates admitting he’s wrong.

“The comedown won’t last that long,” Victor says, startling him. Sherlock jumps a bit before grasping at his head again, glaring at his friend. He hadn’t even known that Victor was in the room.

 _He hadn’t even known Victor was in the room_. That’s just—he’s observant, that’s what he is, that’s what he’s best at, and he hadn’t even _known_. There’s something wrong with him. He needs to get out.

Before he can properly consider the apparent wrongness of his brain, however, Victor speaks again. “You’ll probably feel a little shitty today, but you didn’t take that much. You’ll be better in a little while.”

Sherlock inhales deeply through his nose and drops his hands back to his sides. He straightens his back and turns to glare. “Were you sitting out here watching me sleep?”

The offensive seems to throw Victor, who shrinks back into his seat across from the couch. “What? No! I mean, well, for the past few minutes, but I wasn’t like—I wasn’t _watching_ you. I just knew that if I let you wake up on your own, you’d panic and bolt and then do that really annoying thing where you dodge all my calls and texts.”

That had been Sherlock’s plan. He brings his legs up onto the couch, curling in a ball. He continues to glare, but more from a lack of idea about what else to do. He needs to get away from Victor as quickly as possible, before Victor can tell him to get out and leave him alone. John ended it; he can’t handle Victor leaving him, too. “Well, thank you for your unsettling vigil. I’m fine, and I want to leave now.”

“Oh come on, seriously?” Victor rubs a hand down his face. “Is this how you’re going to act about this? I’m not angry, you idiot.”

He doesn’t believe Victor. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Of course it is! I’m not an idiot—or, well, I guess I am, compared to you, but you know, everyone is compared to you. I’m getting off track.”

“Right. I’m going to go, then.”

Victor stands as Sherlock does, and for a moment, they just stare at each other. Slowly, Victor sits down. He stares up at Sherlock, wide-eyed. “It was just a kiss, Sherlock. It doesn’t actually matter.”

“It mattered to you last night,” Sherlock says, still standing.

Victor’s curly fringe bounces against his forehead as he nods. “Yes, but I’ve had some time to think, and it’s not that big of a deal. I think you were trying to do me some sort of favor, in a weird way. And it’s like—I doubt we’re the first friends who have ever kissed each other. People have survived it before.” He grins a bit. “I know that you were just high and upset about John and grateful that I was looking out for you.”

It all sounds so reasonable that Sherlock is sure that there is some sort of trap waiting for him. He’ll say the wrong thing or act the wrong way and then Victor will jump up and laugh at him, kick him out of his house, never speak to him again.

But Victor’s gaze is clear and direct and sincere, and Sherlock thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can trust him.

“You’re not angry?” he asks. His voice sounds smaller than usual in his own ears.

Tension bleeds from Victor as he catches his head in his hands, ruffles his blond hair. “Oh, God. Sherlock, you idiot. It’s not a big deal. I mean, it’s not like we’re even attracted to each other. Sometimes friends kiss, and it means nothing, and it’s fine.”

Sherlock cocks his head to the side as he sinks back into his seat on the couch. “I think you’re attractive. So did twenty-three separate blokes at the club, seven of which would have seriously considered approaching you had you not been with me.”

“How did you do that while out of your mind?” Victor laughs, and it’s the same laugh as always. Things aren’t weird. Sherlock hasn’t ruined them. Truly, this is a first. “You’re incredible. And, you know, it’s not about thinking someone’s attractive. I mean, I know you’re totally fit, just look at you, but you’re my friend, so I can ignore that. There’s a difference between knowing someone is good looking and wanting to be with them.”

“You think I’m good looking?”

“Stop fishing for a compliment,” Victor rolls his eyes, still grinning.

He wasn’t, not really, but Sherlock lets it slide. He reaches toward the front pocket of his jeans—his clothes are so grimy and disgusting, he’ll need to borrow something from Victor—only to notice that his mobile is not there.

“Did I lose my mobile?” he asks, patting down his jeans and then looking around for his coat.

Victor smacks himself in the forehead and then pulls Sherlock’s mobile from his own pocket. “Sorry! On the ride home, you started talking about texting John, so I thought it best to take this away from you before you could do something you regretted.”

Relief courses through his veins. Thank God for Victor. He stretches out his hand and takes the mobile from Victor’s hands. Their fingers touch briefly.

“Thanks,” he says, swiping at the screen to see his messages.

He has ten texts—a lot, considering he generally dislikes talking to other people. The first nine are from Mrs. Watson, asking if he’s alright, if he’d like to come back, if he needs to talk. The final message from her asks that he please call as soon as he can to let them know that he is physically okay, at the very least.

Usually, hearing from John’s family makes Sherlock happy. He likes that he’s important to the Watsons. Now, however, a kind of hurt pierces through his heart. He shoots off a text to her saying that he is fine and will contact her soon. He thinks that that might be a lie.

The last message is from Mycroft. He nearly ignores it, but then, with a sigh, he opens it up.

“Oh,” he says.

Victor, who had taken his own mobile out, glances up. “What?”

Sherlock flips his phone around so that Victor can see it. Onscreen, the pair of them enter the gay club, hand in hand. When Sherlock swipes his thumb, the picture disappears and a new one shows up: the two of them kissing on the street near Victor’s car. Victor leans closer, squinting, before his eyes fly wide in surprise.

“My brother’s texted to inform me that my father is aware of my continued deviancy and that my credit card no longer works,” Sherlock says. He laughs mirthlessly. “It appears I’ve been cut off.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm thinking of doing a fic giveaway when I hit 200 followers on tumblr. If you're interested, follow me. :)
> 
> Please let me know what you thought of this chapter!


	12. Chapter 12

_Hey, it’s me. I, um—I know I’m probably not who you want to hear from right now, but my mum keeps calling. She says she’s left you a bunch of messages and hasn’t heard back from you since, well, you know. It’s been over a week. She’s worried, I’m worried. I know things have got kind of messed up, and if you’re not ready to talk to me, I completely understand. Do you think you could send me a text or something, though, so that I know you’re okay? Or at least send one to my mum. You have her number, right? Right. Of course you do, what am I saying. I’m babbling now, and I know you hate that, but—  
I just wanted you to know that whenever you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to talk. Like we used to, you know? Best friends, ‘cause that’s what you are. You’re my best friend. So, no pressure or anything, take all the time you need. Just so you know, though, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere._

\--

Sherlock sighs and hits the red button at the bottom of his screen, ending the call. His mobile drops to his chest as he settles back onto the bed in his room. He’s listened to the message four times since John left it two days earlier. He hasn’t contacted John at all, although he did send Mrs. Watson a message ( _Alive. SH_ ). She’s texted him back several times, but he’s ignored the messages.

He’ll call John back soon—well, soonish. Sherlock isn’t an idiot; a week and a half of time to think has given him some clarity. No matter how much it hurts to even think John’s name, at least now there’s some sort of finality. There’s no more wondering, hoping, pining. The sentence of their romantic relationship has a definitive period at the end.

It’s horrible, but it’s also done. What’s that stupid thing normal people are always going on about—closure? Well, now Sherlock has some, and he still gets a best friend out of the deal, if he ever decides to call John.

Which he _will_. He wants to talk to John. He wants to tell John about the idiot girl in his chemistry lab who accidentally started a fire and about his insufferable literature professor. He wants to regale him with the tale of Victor beating him at Mario Kart and gloating for two days straight. He wants to complain about getting cut off. He wants to explain how he managed to burn half of Fat Oliver’s shirts without getting caught. He wants to hear John call him brilliant.

Just—not quite yet. If Sherlock were like other people, with their feelings and idiotic emotional needs, he would say that he requires some time alone to heal. Luckily, Sherlock is not like other people. His heart isn’t broken; it was silly to think that it ever was. That night on the Watson’s porch feels distant, even if it only happened twelve days ago.  
And if he happens to listen to John’s voicemail because he occasionally misses the sound of John’s voice—well, that’s hardly anything. 

He picks up his mobile off his chest, running his thumb across the screen. Mycroft’s texted him again, it seems, to remind him that his new debit card should arrive tomorrow by post. As helpful as it is that Mycroft has secretly secured him a new bank account (furnished from _Mycroft’s_ trust, his brother reminds him _in every single text he sends_ ), Sherlock has not replied to any of his messages. He’s grateful, but he doesn’t want Mycroft to know that.

He’s considering calling his voicemail again, just in case he missed something in John’s message the first four times he heard it, when the doorknob begins to jiggle. Fat Oliver, and it seems as though he’s lost his keys-- _again_. It’s why he’s fumbling with the door, despite the fact that he’s lived here for several months. He’s had to cut a whole new set of keys, Sherlock would guess, and is therefore having trouble distinguishing which is the right one for their room.

The door is unlocked. Sherlock does not call out and inform Oliver of that fact.

A moment later, Oliver bursts into the room. He immediately glares at Sherlock, discarding his shoes by the doorway and shrugging out of his coat, throwing it so that it lands on his desk. Instead of retreating to his bed and dragging his laptop onto his stomach, which is Oliver’s usual routine, he hesitates in the middle of the room.

“Err,” he begins. It’s never a good sign when he tries to make conversation. “I was wondering…”

“Were you? Well, then, you’re doing better than I ever expected of you. Congratulations.”

Oliver frowns. “God, you’re such an arsehole. I just wanted to know if you are you staying on campus during the winter hols or not.”

Sherlock shrugs. Obviously, he isn’t welcome back home—being disowned really put a damper on his Christmas plans of hiding in his room to avoid his family. He’d assumed he’d stay in his room, avoid everyone else on campus, and see Victor on the days when he didn’t need to go down to London to be with his father.

“I had planned to,” Sherlock says, watching Oliver carefully. His stomach drops when Oliver’s chubby face falls into a scowl.

“It’s just that—well, I mean, I’m going home, but I’m coming back early. I’ll be here for the fortnight before the start of classes,” Oliver says. He crosses his arms. “My house is pretty suffocating, and I want to see my girlfriend.”

Sherlock is caught somewhere between surprise and disgust. Fat Oliver has a girlfriend? There is a woman who lets him touch her with his sweaty paws? He wonders what could possibly be wrong with this girl that she’d voluntarily spend time with _Oliver_.

“You’re asking me to clear out so that you can have sex with your girlfriend without worrying about my presence,” Sherlock clarifies. 

Oliver goes bright red. “Shut up.”

It’s unacceptable that Oliver should come back early. Sherlock shifts his eyes down, slumps his shoulders; he’ll need to be over-the-top if he wants to win Oliver’s sympathies. “**My parents and I have had a falling out. My grandmother is in hospital, and she isn’t going to wake up. She changed her estate plan last year so that I’m the sole benefactor from her will, and my parents are already trying to contest it when she isn’t even…” He runs a hand through his hair, looking suitably distressed. “I don’t want to see them, and I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

Across the room, Oliver sits on his bed, still facing Sherlock. His eyes are wide and he bites his lip. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry, about your parents. And your Gran. It’s just—it’s fine, you know, I’ll figure it out. Don’t worry about it.”

Sherlock keeps his voice soft, sad. “Thanks.”

He turns on his side with his back facing Oliver and curls into a ball. He can’t take it anymore and grins at the wall. Normal people are so _easy_. Even Oliver, who has hated him from the day they met, can’t help but fall for watery eyes and a sob story. Empathy—Sherlock doesn’t really understand it, but he appreciates its existence.

\--

Oliver leaves twenty minutes later, stuttering an excuse about studying with a mate for a big test. The holidays start in two days. Sherlock has turned in his final papers and sat for most of his exams. He has one last class to worry about—Chemistry, tomorrow evening. He’ll be taking a harder version of the assessment than everyone else in the class so that he can finish out the pre-requisites for the advanced class he signed up for in the spring. He isn’t worried; he’s fairly certain he could pass the test with his eyes closed.

At six, he gets a text from Victor ( _Get your arse out here and come eat dinner because you definitely haven’t eaten all day_ ). He’s correct, of course. Sherlock hadn’t feel like eating today. Best not to tell Victor that, however. He’ll get a swelled head.

He stands and shrugs into his coat, putting his keys and his mobile into his pocket and then heading downstairs to meet Victor outside. Victor grins at him from ear to ear and says, “I knew you had to be hungry!”

“I’m not,” Sherlock lies as he joins Victor at his side. “I’m just humouring you.”

Victor shoves at Sherlock’s arm and they walk toward the dining hall.

It’s impossible for Sherlock not to notice that Victor stands closer to him now than he ever did before. Their hands occasionally brush as they swing their arms in tandem to their own strides; it’s nothing deliberate, but it never happened before the night at the club. Now, it happens every day. If Sherlock moved slightly to the right, they would be pressed arm-to-arm, side-to-side.

Neither of them mentions it, just like how neither of them moves out of the other’s space. Sherlock isn’t sure what this means; or rather, he is sure what it means, he did the same things with John, and he’s not sure he’s ready for it to happen again.

The thought of backing away, of taking a casual step to the side and continuing the walk without acknowledging what he’s done—it seems just as impossible as staying right where he is. He’s not sure what he wants with Victor, or what it means in regard to how he feels about John.

John.

They reach the dining hall and grab dinner, settling down in a table in the corner. Sherlock clears his throat, “So, guess what Fat Oliver said to me today.”

“Finally decided to get out of your head and join me, then?” Victor asks. Upon reflection, Sherlock realizes he hasn’t spoken in seventeen minutes. The entire time, Victor has allowed the silence without breaking it. Surely he must be annoyed? He is grinning, however, and Sherlock realises that Victor means to tease him, not chastise him. “Welcome back. Also, you shouldn’t call your roommate Fat Oliver, mate. That’s not very nice.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Please.”

“Fine, fine. What did he say to you?”

“He asked me to clear out for the winter hols so that he can have copious amounts of undisturbed sex with his girlfriend.” Upon seeing Victor’s face, Sherlock nods emphatically. “I know, I can hardly believe he has convinced a woman to touch him. Anyway, I sold him a bit of a sob story about a dying grandmother and now he’s agreed that I get the room.” He still feels quite pleased with this, and is therefore confused when Victor’s jaw drop and he stares at Sherlock, aghast. Blinking, Sherlock asks, “What?”

Victor shoves his plate to the side and leans into the table. “You can’t stay in your college housing over the holidays! You’ll be alone, and that’s awful!”

“Well, I can’t go home, can I? My parents have been quite clear that they do not wish to speak to me until I’ve somehow cured myself of my little ‘affliction.’ As we both know how likely that is, I’ve decided to stay on campus.”

“But the dining hall will be closed, and—well, how will you eat? And how can you spend Christmas by yourself?”

Victor’s concern would be sweet if it weren’t also overbearing. Struggling not to roll his eyes, Sherlock lets out a deep sigh. “My brother Mycroft has set me up a bank account. Very secret—he doesn’t run the government yet, but I suspect that he probably will one day. If he says it’s secure, I believe him. I have money to take care of myself, and you know me. I enjoy being alone.”

“No.”

Sherlock blinks. “No?”

“You shouldn’t be alone during the holidays, Sherlock! They’re the holidays! That’s just…wrong. Why don’t you just come and stay at my Cambridge flat? We’ll hang out and play video games and on Christmas you can come for dinner with me in London.”

The plan sounds intriguing until Victor mentions dinner. “I don’t want to do Christmas dinner. I don’t have a good track record with those.”

Victor’s brow furrows. He picks up his fork and idly stabs at his salad. “What do you mean?”

“John and I initially broke up last year after he came to meet my parents at our family Christmas dinner,” Sherlock stares at the table. He does not look up at Victor, does not want to see Victor’s comical over-wide eyes and stunned expression. Victor gets that way every time Sherlock mentions John, as if he’s constantly surprised to have Sherlock confide in him. “My father deduced that John was thinking about joining the army, and then he threatened John’s parents, and…”

“Your dad is fucking scary, mate.”

“He really is.”

There’s a tense silence in which Victor clears his throat. “I, well. Look. No dinner is fine with me, if that’s what you want. If you want to be alone on Christmas day, I won’t stop you. Whatever you prefer is fine. But, you know, I still think you should stay with me for the rest of the holiday. No sense in being alone when you could be with a friend, right?”

Sherlock sees it: the distance between them is closing. They’re filling in each other’s gaps, and he is suddenly worried that, with time, they will no longer seem to be two separate entities but just one extension of each other. It hasn’t happened yet. Sherlock can stop it from happening, can pull away. He doesn’t, though.

He thinks of John’s voicemail, the one he’s listened to just to hear the other boy’s voice. Across from him, Victor smiles, and some small part of him wants this, too.

Guilt worms in his gut as he says, “Right. Well, thank you. I’d love to stay for the holiday.”

\--

Dr. Channing’s Chemistry final is laughably easy, and Sherlock strides out of the hallway, refusing to catch her eye when she stares at him deliberately. He hasn’t spoken to her since that day she accused him of being arrogant—he knows he’s arrogant, but he is with good reason. She won’t be teaching his next course, so he feels no need to suck up to her, and he is grateful that she lets him leave the classroom (first one done and his exam was harder than anyone else’s, ridiculous) without trying to stop him.

He goes back to his room and packs up his belongings. He folds up a few pair of trousers and button down shirts, but leaves the ties in his chest of drawers. Ever since that night at the club, he’s taken to wearing his shirts without one. Victor’s appreciative looks have increased by thirty-two percent.

Is it manipulative, he wonders, to do these things deliberately because he enjoys the way that Victor looks at him? He likes the way that Victor likes him, he knows, and he thinks he might like Victor himself, but John is still in there, muddying everything beyond comprehension. Living would be so much easier if it weren’t so messy and emotional. He’d have no emotions at all, if he could help it.

He throws a few other odds and ends in his bag—his mobile charger, a book Victor loaned to him. When he finds _Lawrence of Arabia_ in the back of his closet, he hesitates over adding it; he hasn’t watched it in months. Maybe it’s time to do so again, he thinks. Prove that he’s capable of moving on from things, too.

He calls Victor as soon as his bag is zipped up and ready to go. Oliver left hours ago, giving Sherlock a sympathetic wave as he walked out the door. Sherlock hadn’t informed him of the change in his plans; he doesn’t really want Oliver to have sex in their room, anyway.

Victor’s car shows up on a side street a few minutes later, and Sherlock heads down the stairs, walks the short distance to the road, and jumps inside, dumping his bag at his feet. He hasn’t been to Victor’s since the night after the club, and although neither of them mention it, he is sure that Victor is thinking about that, as well.

When they arrive at Victor’s flat ten minutes later, he grabs Sherlock’s bag for him and they both head inside. They migrate toward the living room, where Victor lets the luggage fall to the floor.

The silence is awkward. Sherlock hates it. He shifts on his feet, refusing to make eye contact.

“So,” Victor says, “how was your last exam?”

“Good. Yours?”

“Fine.”

Is it because they’re suddenly roommates, Sherlock wonders. Is it one thing to invite someone you see as a potential romantic partner (perhaps only subconsciously on Victor’s part, Sherlock isn’t sure) to stay in your home, and then quite another to have actually have them there? How else can he explain this suddenly stilted feel in the air around them?

Victor scratches at the back of his neck. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

“I hate most movies,” Sherlock replies. Victor winces, and he automatically regrets his response. _Stupid_ , he thinks. _Be more normal_. “But we can watch one, if you want.”

It’s not as strong a recovery as he needs. “I don’t want to put you out or anything…”

Sherlock shakes his head no. “It’s fine, really. What do you want to watch?”

“Well, what are the movies you like?” Victor asks. “Did you bring any? We can watch one of those, if you want. That way I know you’ll like it.”

The thought of watching _Lawrence of Arabia_ , something that reminds him so much of John, of the early days in their relationship—it’s painful. He swallows against the emotions threatening to rise up his throat. It’s just a film. He’ll never get over anything if he continues to coddle himself this way.

“I brought _Lawrence of Arabia_ ,” he says, narrowing his eyes when Victor grimaces.

“Isn’t that movie like a hundred years long?” Victor asks. He must read Sherlock’s displeasure in his body language because he holds up his hands, placating. “Alright, alright. I’ll try it. I’ll grab us something to drink while you put it on. Water okay with you?”

Sherlock nods absently, digging through his things for the very DVD he’d hesitated to bring at all. He pops it into Victor’s player and settles himself in the corner of the couch, feet on the cushion, arms wrapped tight around his calves. When Victor returns, he settles a glass of water on the floor in front of Sherlock and then sits on the other end of the couch. There is a veritable ocean of upholstered fabric between them.

The movie begins, and within the first twenty minutes, Victor has gone from complaining about boredom to being dead asleep. Sherlock rolls his eyes at his unconscious friend, but even he struggles to pay attention. The movie isn’t captivating him the way it always has in the past. He sighs and digs his mobile out of his pocket, getting online.

Maybe what he needs, he thinks, is to get back to himself, to what he loves. He brings up Craigslist and types out a quick advertisement, posting it to the miscellaneous services tabs. _Private Investigator taking new cases_ , the title reads.

He grins to himself.

He spends the rest of the film barely paying attention, staring at his mobile and waiting for someone to text him with a case. No one does, but he lives in hope. On the other side of couch, Victor slumps down with his head on the arm rest, his legs stretching into the empty territory between them. He doesn’t stir until the final credits roll. As soon as he awakens, he says, “That was the most boring thing I’ve ever seen, Sherlock. You’re insane.”

“Am not,” Sherlock says. “You missed all the action parts while you were asleep.”

“I wasn’t asleep, I was resting my eyes,” Victor says, laughing as he dodges the throw pillow Sherlock launches at his head. “Fine, fine. Why don’t we watch something more fun? Something with some _real_ action parts?”

“Not Bond.”

There must be something in Sherlock’s tone that clues Victor in to why he says it, and Victor nods sagely. “Never cared much for Bond, myself. How about _The Dark Knight_?”

Victor heads to his shelf of movies by the telly, and he grabs one from it. He shows Sherlock the cover—a man in a ridiculous suit. Some sort of superhero fare. Sherlock suppresses a weary sigh. “That looks great.”

Victor rolls his eyes. “Would it be possible for you to be less enthused? This is getting embarrassing.”

Sherlock gives him a two-finger salute, and Victor puts on the movie. He moves back to the couch, sitting on the middle cushion. His hands fall to either side of him, palms down, steadying himself, and Sherlock stares. The distance between Victor’s hand and Sherlock’s thigh is small—he, too, could reach out. He could touch Victor’s hand.

If he wanted to, that is. Which he does. Or maybe doesn’t, he isn’t sure. 

But he might.

The film starts, and it is heinously boring. Clowns rob a bank, a billionaire playboy secretly wears a stupid costume and talks in a ridiculous voice. Sherlock turns to complain to Victor about the obvious plothole of leaving a supervillain in the middle of a party in order to dive after one woman and notices that he has fallen asleep once more, his head turned toward Sherlock’s shoulder.

The space between them has shrunk again. It’s practically non-existent. Sherlock isn’t sure he minds.

He shakes Victor awake. “Go to bed.”

“I’m sorry, I’m being really lame. I just stayed up most of last night studying,” he says, fighting back a yawn. “There’s a blanket and pillow behind the couch for you.”

“Thanks,” Sherlock says.

He is angled toward Victor, who is still close. Their faces are a breath apart—if either of them wanted to cross the line, they could do so easily. Sherlock watches as Victor swallows, tracks the path of his Adam’s apple with his eyes. He doesn’t stare at Victor’s lips, but he finds that he wants to.

Victor suddenly pulls back. “Well, goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Sherlock replies, but Victor has practically bolted from the room.

He settles into the couch, not bothering to grab the blanket or even change into more comfortable clothes. He isn’t tired, he needs to _think_. There’s something happening here, with Victor, and he needs to reason it out.

When his mobile chimes at 4 AM, he’s no closer to any answers. He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out. Onscreen, a new text message has appeared.

_R u the detective frm CL? Becuz I need ur hlp. Sum1 stole frm me._

Sherlock grins. The game is on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **hey this is literally the thing that happens to Casey Gant in season 1, episode 9 of Veronica Mars (episode "Drinking the Kool-Aid"). I mostly included it because <3<3VERONICA MARS<3<3.
> 
> Sorry the chapter is out a bit later than usual in the day. I had to take an extensive break in my editing in order to enthusiastically lip sync the entire soundtrack to _Frozen_. You know, adult things.
> 
> Stop judging me. I AM ONE WITH THE WIND AND SKY.
> 
> In other news, let me know what you thought of the chapter, and come hang out with me on tumblr.


	13. Chapter 13

“You’re going to think I’m an idiot,” the man across the table confesses, his hands twisting in nervous tangles.

“Probably,” Sherlock agrees. Victor elbows him in the side, but he chooses to ignore the pain. “Regardless, you contacted me for my services and should tell me the situation.”

The man bites his lip. Sherlock can’t remember his name; he’d said it when he sat down at the coffee shop where they’d agreed to meet, but Sherlock had ignored him. Whoever he is, he’s young—early to mid-twenties. Went through a rebellious stage, judging by the evidence of closed-over piercings on his eyebrows, his ears, his nose, and below his bottom lip. Barely visible, now. He must have let them grow shut since they are nothing more than tiny pock marks; the average person wouldn’t even notice them, but Sherlock flatters himself that he is not the average person.

So, a recovered bad boy who had to let go of his preferred lifestyle at least five years ago, around the age of eighteen. His clothes look to have been the fashion in that point in time, as well. They are nearly worn-through; the elbow of his shirt has been (poorly) patched on two separate occasions. He’s done it himself, most likely. No mother to do it for him.

What would cause a rebellious bad boy to let go of his lifestyle—the lack of a mother is key, Sherlock is sure. Was he kicked out? Sherlock can relate.

But no, no that doesn’t make sense. If he’d been kicked out for his punk rock lifestyle, he would have felt compelled to stick with it just to prove a point. He wouldn’t have let his piercings grown closed. He would have proudly displayed them. Spite. A motivator, certainly, but not the most powerful.

Love, however.

Parents are no longer in the picture. Likely dead. Love, of course it’s love—giving up the piercings, the (probably) black clothing, all that rot. It’s a sort of penance. This client feels guilty for the time he insisted that the only way he could be different was to act out his insecurities the same way as every other teenager.

The man twitches and brings his hands up to his mouth, rubbing at his jaw. He’s obviously uncomfortable under Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock just keeps staring.

“Why don’t you tell us what was stolen, Bradley,” prompts Victor, sounding bored.

Bradley, then. Well, that’s one mystery solved.

Victor’s tone of voice bothers him, and when Sherlock looks over, his friend is on his mobile, texting. He had not been best pleased when Sherlock had awoken him that morning, eager to get started on the case. Apparently, at some point during the inane bat movie, Sherlock had promised Victor that he would accompany Victor and his extremely dull friends to the cinema the next evening. Sherlock doesn’t recall this happening, but Victor swore that it did, and he’d spent the morning in a sulk when Sherlock had tried to get out of it.

“I want you to meet the rest of my friends,” he’d said, pouting a bit over tea and toast. “It’s not about the movie. And if you go off and take a case, you could be caught up all day, and you’ll miss Tom and Eric and Darah. They practically don’t believe you exist, you know, since I talk about you all the time and they haven’t actually met you.”

“Can’t we do it some other time?” Sherlock had asked, ignoring the tea Victor had poured him.

“They all three are leaving for home in the next few days. I doubt it. I mean, I know this is important to you, but you meeting my friends is important to _me_.” He had shrugged. “Besides, I don’t even know why you want me to come. What good will _I_ be on a case?”

Sherlock had nearly told him that John had always been excited about helping with his cases, but he’d held back at the last moment.

He comes back to the present. Spite: not a vicious enough motivator.

“Right, sorry,” Bradley shakes his head. “It’s just—well, my parents died about—“

“Five years ago,” Sherlock supplies.

Bradley freezes. “How did you know that?”

“Oh, God, don’t ask that,” Victor interrupts, rolls his eyes. “He’ll go on and on about the way you button your shirt or something. He’s just very observant and good at putting together contextual clues. Let’s get back to the case at hand, shall we?”

Sherlock scowls at Victor, who crosses his arms and leans back into his wooden chair. It’s maddening; Sherlock can look at his new client and read his parents’ death in a few closed-over piercings, but he cannot piece together why Victor is acting like if they missed an evening at the cinema it would be the end of the world.

“You can leave, meet up with your friends,” Sherlock pronounces the word ‘friends’ as if it is foul-tasting. “I mean, if you’re going to act this way—“

Victor’s tight posture softens. “No, no. It’s fine. You asked me to come along. I’m sorry I’m being a bit of a prick. It’s fun to watch you work things out. You know I enjoy it. I just really want a chance to show you off, you know?”

_’Show you off.’ _Something warms inside of Sherlock’s chest, and his gaze lingers on Victor’s face. On the other side of the table, Bradley clears his throat.__

__“Do you two need a moment?” he asks, his voice tight. “I mean, I’m paying you to solve this for me, not figure out whether or not you’re breaking up.”_ _

__When Sherlock shifts his gaze back toward Bradley, he is very satisfied to see the other man recoil. He clears his throat. “Tell me about your case, then.”_ _

__“Right…” Bradley says, dropping his eyes to the table. “Anyway, it’s just been me and my younger brother Mickey since then, and I’ve taken care of him. He’s always been a real good kid, too. Hardly had any trouble with him until recently. He’s got his first girlfriend, this girl named Katie, and they’re both convinced that it’s,” his face screws up in mocking disbelief,”’ _true love_ ’.”_ _

__“You don’t like her?” Victor asks. Sherlock can barely contain his huff of indignation—wouldn’t, if Victor hadn’t already apologised for being an arse. What a stupid question! Of _course_ Bradley doesn’t like her; why else would he be so mocking and rude?_ _

__“I didn’t think she was so bad at first, but now…it’s the whole devotion they have for each other. It’s only been four months, but they’re already convinced that they’re destined to be together for life. They inseparable. It’s just unhealthy. I mean, they’re bloody teenagers!” Bradley shoves a hand through his dark hair. “He asked me if he could have Mum’s engagement ring to give to Katie. I’ve had it in the same drawer since our parents died. I kept it in case either one of us wanted to do just that, but…I mean, they’re eighteen! Everything feels like true love when you’re that age, especially in early days.”_ _

__Sherlock thinks back to last Christmas, when Mycroft picked him up from the Watson’s house. He and John had just touched each other-- _really_ touched each other—for the first time. They’d just broken up for the first time, as well._ _

__He’d told Mycroft then that there would never be another._ _

__He does not turn to look at Victor, but it takes a lot of willpower not to do so._ _

__“Go on,” Sherlock grits out. His tone catches Victor’s attention, and he ignores his friend’s questioning look._ _

__“Right. Well, I said he couldn’t have the ring, and he went nuts. So I hid it. He’s not usually a thief or anything, but he was so angry. I’ve never seen him so angry…” Bradley’s voice turned contemplative and sad. “I put it in my studio because Mickey never goes in there.”_ _

__“Your studio?” asks Victor._ _

__Sherlock closes his eyes against that question, reminds himself that this is Victor’s first case. Isn’t it obvious, he wonders. The caked in clay under Bradley’s fingernails—something he works with regularly, then. A potter. Not professionally, it would appear, since he is currently wearing heavy, steel-toed boots and his shirt has wood shavings caught in the creases of the sleeves. Housing seems likely. Something stable to continue to bring in the money necessary to support both him and his younger brother since the age of eighteen. Pottery is a personal passion._ _

__“Tell me,” Sherlock says before Bradley can interrupt and give Victor the obvious, dull answer, “do you have your own kiln in your studio?”_ _

__Bradley’s eyebrows go toward his hairline, but he recovers more quickly this time. He clears his throat. “Yeah, I do, actually. Built it myself a few years ago. You can learn anything from the internet.”_ _

__Things start to come together in Sherlock’s head. He hums and presses his fingertips together, resting them against his lips. “So you can do everything yourself. Interesting. And tell me, do you sell your pottery?”_ _

__“Just started to do. There’s this little shop down the street, just opened up. Took me a few months to convince the owner, but she—“_ _

__“Don’t care. So what did your brother say when you asked him about the ring?”_ _

__“How did you—you know what, nevermind. I had to pee in the middle of the night, so I got up, and on my way back to my room, I thought I heard something. There was nothing there, but when I went to check on the ring, it was gone. That’s when I texted you. I waited until Mickey got up this morning, and that’s when I told him that it wasn’t in its hiding spot, and that he had better give it back to me.” Bradley shrugs helplessly. “He told me he didn’t know where it was, and he—he was so sincere, you have to believe me. It can’t have been Mickey. He was just as upset about it as me. Someone _had_ to have broken in.”_ _

__“We believe you,” Victor reassures him. He kicks Sherlock’s ankle under the table to preemptively stop him from disagreeing with that statement. “I’m sure Sherlock will do everything he can to help you find your mother’s ring.”_ _

__“Really?” asks Bradley, his hand curling into a fist. He presses it against his mouth._ _

__Sherlock sighs heavily through his nose. Such melodrama, and all over a _ring_. Normal people are idiots. “I need to see your studio, I need the name and address of the shop, and then I need to speak to your brother. In that order.”_ _

__“Right. Right, then. I live about six blocks away, we can walk.”_ _

__The three of them stand, throwing some pound notes on the table to cover the cost of their coffees. They walk to Bradley’s house quietly, the only sound between the three of them the slapping of their feet against the pavement. Their short walk comes to an end in front of a small, dilapidated townhome._ _

__Bradley rubs a hand against the back of his neck, turning red. “It’s ain’t much, I know, but it’s home.” He hesitates, shifting on his feet, and then fishes his keys out of his pocket. “Come on. My studio is in the back.”_ _

__He unlocks the front door and ushers them inside. His front hallway is a cornucopia of secrets, and Sherlock sees them all. The pictures on the left wall are all of his parents and a young boy with dark hair and eyes—Mickey, presumably. They’re not the photographs that hung on that wall for most of Bradley’s life, however. The light from the front window hits that wall hard in the early afternoon; it’s so intense that the wallpaper around the frames that used to hang turned darker, more brittle. The frames that currently hang upon those nails are different sizes than the ones that were there for years; Sherlock can sees the clear delineation of where the old ones used to hang in the light and dark of the wallpaper._ _

__He’s about to deduce the state of the rug when Victor reaches out and tugs at the sleeve of his coat, bringing him back into the present._ _

__“Earth to Sherlock,” Victor says. “Bradley is still moving. Stop thinking, start solving this case.”_ _

__“That makes no sense. I have to think in order to solve the case.”_ _

__Victor sucks in an annoyed breath and lets it out slowly, calmly. His voice is even as he says, “Just—I know this is important, I’m not trying to say it isn’t, but the movie starts in about an hour and a half, and they’re all meeting for drinks beforehand. I doubt we’ll make the pub, but is there any chance you will figure out who took the ring and we will still be able to make it to that film?”_ _

__If Victor doesn’t stop nattering on incessantly about the film, Sherlock is going to lose his patience—and he doesn’t have a great store of it to begin with. He’s already figured out who took the ring, and he’s nearly positive he knows how, but none of that is the fun part. The fun part, he wants to tell Victor, is confirming his suspicions, seeing the puzzle come together exactly as he imagined it would. He could tell Bradley now if all he cared about was finding the guilty party, but that’s not what is important to him._ _

__He shrugs his arm out of Victor’s grip and strides forward, listening for Bradley’s footsteps to know which way he should be going. Deep breath in, deep breath out. He tries to quell the vindictive feeling clawing at his heart. Victor _likes_ his deductions; he’s always seemed impressed by them before, even when they were at his expense. So why is he acting this way about a case? A case! A somewhat boring, obvious case, maybe, but he doubts that Victor realises that._ _

__He wants Victor to find him interesting and impressive, and instead he seems—aggravated._ _

__Sherlock lifts his chin a bit as he enters the room furthest back in the house. Victor is close on his heels, coming in just a moment later. Bradley lifts his arms and motions around. “Well, this is it. This is, um, my wheel, and those are some of my finished pieces,” he points at a shelf of small pots. “I usually have some vases around, too, but I just brought the last batch to the lady at the flower shop down the street this morning. That’s the one I was telling you about, that sells some of my work. Not much, I know, but at least it’s something.” He nods toward a wet-looking version of the vase. “This is the only example I have right now. It’s my current project. I was going to fire it later today…”_ _

__Sherlock ignores the finished pots and stares at the vase. It is slim but sturdy looking. Not the prettiest vase he’s ever seen, but there’s a certain appeal to its earthiness. “And do all the pieces you’ve been selling to this woman resemble this one?”_ _

__“Pretty much, yeah,” Bradley says with a shrug. “I mean, there’s some variation, of course. Sometimes I make a batch that is a bit fancier, but for the most part—yeah, yeah that’s the general idea of them.”_ _

__“Perfect. How many do you sell to this woman at a time?”_ _

__“About a dozen, I suppose.”_ _

__Sherlock straightens and glances at Victor, who is texting on his mobile, ignoring everything that’s going on. Before he can stop himself, a frown paints its way across Sherlock’s face. He glances at his own mobile, which is distressingly silent. John hasn’t texted, Mrs. Watson remains silent. Not even his brother has tried to annoy him today._ _

__He glances at the time under the guise of having something to do. Three in the afternoon. He has a little over an hour to prove his deductions about the ring thief. Child’s play._ _

__“The address of the flower shop?”_ _

__Bradley googles it on his phone, turning the map around so that Sherlock can see it. It’s just a short walk down the street. “Excellent. Come along, both of you.”_ _

__He turns dramatically, his coat flaring out behind him in a very satisfactory way. John used to tease him about his ridiculous exits, but Sherlock has already been rather fond of a bit of flair on a case. He’s surprised and pleased to find it doesn’t hurt to remember John’s laughter; instead, it makes him feel strangely…fond. The thought makes Sherlock smile to himself as he moves back out onto the street, taking off for the shop without waiting for Victor or Bradley. They’ll catch up._ _

__The shop is quiet and has fresh paint and a pristine, unscratched wooden sign—it’s new, then. Only a few months old. It explains why the owner would be interested in selling some local work; she’s trying to build a rapport with the local neighborhood, build her clientele. Behind him, Sherlock can hear his friend and his client huffing and puffing in order to keep up, but he decides not to wait. He enters the shop, the bell tinkling above his head, and immediately spots the vases in the far corner._ _

__A woman wearing an apron covered in dirt appears behind the counter, brushing her hands off against each other. “Can I help you?”_ _

__Bradley and Victor appear in the shop’s doorway. Bradley looks confused, Victor is closer to irate. He glares at Sherlock, clearly angry about being left behind. It’s hardly Sherlock’s fault that Victor was too busy texting _Tom_ or _Eric_ or _Darah_. Probably apologizing for not meeting them beforehand, or something ridiculous like that._ _

__“Brad?” the shop owner asks, confused._ _

__“Sorry,” Bradley says. “It’s just—“_ _

__“We’re friends of Bradley’s,” Sherlock supplies, giving his most winning sham smile. “He told us that he had finally sold some of his work, and we’re here to support both him and local business.”_ _

__The woman grins. “Well, those are his in the corner. I haven’t put out the new ones out yet, Brad. They’re in the back. I think your friend is still looking for the cracked one.”_ _

__Bradley blinks. “What?”_ _

__“He came in, said you’d sent him because you had accidentally brought over a bad vase. He told me you’d cracked one and made another to replace it, and that there’d been a mix up and you’d accidentally sold me the broken one,” she inclines her head toward the back. “He came in not ten minutes ago.”_ _

__The pieces form together in perfect clarity—everything is just as Sherlock expected it! He feels the glow inside of him that comes from solving the puzzle, from being _right_. He turns to look at Bradley, whose brow is furrowed in confusion. Everything wonderful stops when he sees Victor._ _

__He’s on his damn mobile. Again!_ _

__“This young man,” Sherlock says, looking away from Victor. He straightens his back, tries to regain that beautiful moment of _knowing_. “Dark hair, dark eyes?”_ _

__The woman nods. “Yes. Why?”_ _

__“Excellent. Bradley, it appears your brother was, in fact, aware of where you’d hidden the ring. He went back and stole it from its hiding place, but then he must have panicked—maybe he heard you coming back from the bathroom, or perhaps he was smart enough to realize that his room was the first place you’d check if you looked for the ring. So he shoved it into one of your finished vases, determined to come back for it.” Sherlock grins. The feeling returns. Nothing makes him feel quite like a good puzzle. “Before he could, however, you took the vases here. He knows where your work is sold, so he came by, posing as an assistant of some sort, with the intention of getting the ring and bolting.” He turns back to the shop owner. “May we use the back door? We’ll have a better chance of catching the thief if we go that way, I believe.”_ _

__“Thief? But…” She blinks slowly in apparent shock. As she recovers, she motions for them to jump over the counter. “Come on, then.”_ _

__Bradley is off like a rocket, hurtling himself over the counter and launching himself into the back room. The woman hurries after him, and Sherlock starts to follow but pauses when Victor says, “Sherlock, wait.”_ _

__Sherlock doesn’t want to wait. He wants to catch the thief. He turns, glaring, but stops short when he sees the look on Victor’s face: he is exasperated, unhappy. Victor is not impressed, not at all._ _

__“What?” Sherlock asks, wincing when he realises how distraught he sounds._ _

__Victor’s face softens, and he lets out a sigh. “I think I’m going to get going. The cinema’s a fair walk from here.”_ _

__“But the case.”_ _

__“You dragged me about all afternoon, and I was completely useless. I’m not good at this stuff, Sherlock. Also, I am about ninety percent sure that you figured out what happened over an hour ago and just kept going because—well, I don’t know why, honestly. I mean, I even made an effort to remind you of the time, to ask you to hurry…” He shrugs, listless. “This—you meeting them. It matters to me.”_ _

__A different feeling twists in Sherlock’s gut. It’s not the warm-happy-wonderful feeling of a solved puzzle. Victor’s not wrong. He’s known it was Mickey since Bradley first mentioned him; it was impossible that a thief had broken into a pottery studio in hopes of finding the one valuable thing in the household. No, only two people had known about the ring, and only one of them had contacted a detective to find it._ _

__One suspect. One guilty party._ _

__“This is what I care about,” Sherlock says, slowly. “This is what matters to me. I wanted to—“_ _

__“To what?”_ _

__Sherlock bites his lip. “To _show_ you.”_ _

__Victor goes completely still, his eyes wide. The sun pours through the window behind him, hitting his blond, curly hair like a halo. Sherlock’s insides ache to look at him, but he can’t seem to turn away._ _

__“You were showing off for me?” Victor asks. There’s a smile in the corner of his mouth; Sherlock can also hear it in his voice._ _

__He doesn’t know how to respond. He clears his throat and rolls his shoulders back, standing taller. “Well, yes.” That sounds too desperate, he thinks, so he quickly adds, “Also, I really like puzzles.”_ _

__“God—I’m an idiot. I just felt so useless the whole time, like I was some terrible weight holding you back. I was just sort of waiting for you to snap and tell me to leave you alone with your work. And _then_ I was worried you were only dragging it out because you didn’t want to go see the film—“_ _

__“I _don’t_ want to go see the film.”_ _

__Victor laughs, and Sherlock joins in even though he has no idea why they’re laughing. Suddenly, Victor is much closer, much warmer, and he reaches out and traces down Sherlock’s right arm, ending with his fingers tangling ever so lightly with Sherlock’s._ _

__It feels…nice. Pleasant. He turns his hand so that they’re more solidly joined, and they grin at each other. It seems as though Victor is getting closer, as if they might—_ _

__The back door sounds with a crash, and there’s a shout. Bradley comes bursting into the space behind the counter, his arm around Mickey’s neck. Mickey flails uselessly against the headlock and nearly hits the kindly shopkeeper in the face as she follows close behind._ _

__“You can’t keep us apart!” Mickey screeches as Bradley wrestles the shiny piece of jewelry out of his hand. “We’re in love!”_ _

__“Maybe, but you’re also eighteen and an idiot,” Bradley yells back. The ring glints in the sun for just a moment before he shoves it deep in his pocket and releases his little brother. “I can’t believe you stole from me. From _me_. After everything we have been through, Mickey! I can never trust you again.” He catches a look at Victor and Sherlock, gaping while standing hand-in-hand in the flower shop and visibly deflates, coughing nervously. “Thanks for your help. Send me a bill?”_ _

__Sherlock nods dumbly, still in apparent shock over Mickey’s continued pleadings about true love. “I’ll have it to you by the end of the day.”_ _

__“Perfect. You two should go—catch your film, or whatever.”_ _

__Victor grins at him. “You heard the man.”_ _

__Sherlock groans but allows himself to be dragged out the front door of the shop._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loosely, loosely, LOOSELY adapted version of The Blue Carbuncle from ACD canon. Very loosely adapted. SO LOOSE, YOU GUYS.
> 
> The last 1000 words or so are unbeta-d, so if you notice a mistake, PLEASE let me know.
> 
> As always, I hope you enjoyed this update! I'm pretty excited about the next chapter. :D I am ALSO pretty excited because I just passed 40k on this story--I figure this one is going to be about double the length of 'At Seventeen,' which is a bit daunting, but I'll do my best not to let you guys down. :)
> 
> Also, one of the mods at Fuck Yeah Teenlock said they're going to review 'At Seventeen' soon. *sweats nervously* So keep an eye out for that if you don't already follow that blog (which you should because it is great).
> 
> Let me know what you thought, here or at my tumblr.


	14. Chapter 14

A small girl with short, dark hair and a wide grin waits for them outside the cinema.

“Vicky!” She calls out, bounding up to them. She has to take a running leap in order to get her arms around Victor’s shoulders, and he nearly folds in half as he hugs her back. “You wankers are so late. If you don’t hurry, we’re going to miss the trailers.”

Victor huffs out a laugh, and then picks the girl up, swinging her in a circle. She slaps at his shoulder until he sets her back on her feet. “Sorry about that. The bus was a bit late, and we were on the other side of the city.”

“Solved the case, then?” She walks backward toward the front door, motioning them to follow her. It takes Sherlock a moment to realize that the question is directed at him.

This was who Victor spent the day texting, then. What was the name he had given—Darah? Sherlock gives her a once over, his brain flying with deductions. She’s at Cambridge, as well, reading English literature, if the book sticking out of her purse is any indication. It’s covered in post-it notes and filled with analysis in a tiny, cramped hand. Not a casual reader, surely.

She’s self-conscious about her diminutive height, as evidenced by her chunky-soled shoes (they do little to help) and the vertical stripes she wears in an effort to look taller. Her accent is from Bristol, and he suspects that, until recently, she had a bit of a crush on Victor.

It occurs to him that he hasn’t answered Darah’s question.

“Yes, we did,” he says. The ‘we’ is charitable; Victor didn’t really _do_ anything besides act as a distraction. He glances at his friend out of the corner of his eye, and adds, “’ _Vicky_?’”

Victor goes red. “Shut up.”

Darah laughs, then turns sharply on her heel and enters the cinema’s lobby. Over her shoulder, she says, “Tom and Eric bought us all tickets, since you two were running late and we were afraid the show would sell out.”

Victor starts, “They shouldn’t have—“

He’s interrupted when a pair of university-aged idiots come rushing forward. The rest of his sentence is eaten by hearty slaps on the back and shoulder. One of the idiots does a double take upon seeing Sherlock.

“So he _does_ exist!” 

Victor bats them away. His tone turns pleading. “You guys…”

“No, Vicky, you don’t get out of this one. You talk about nothing but this bloke for months on end and then expect us not to be a bit excited about meeting him?” The taller man of the pair sticks out his hand, grinning. “I’m Tom. We’ve all heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, God,” says Victor, even as Sherlock shakes Tom’s hand.

“I’m Eric,” says the last of the three to be introduced. He’s shorter and stockier, with light brown hair. “I’m glad we finally get to meet the man who stole our Vicky away.”

Sherlock bites back a grin and looks over at Victor, who refuses to meet his eyes. 

“You guys are arseholes,” Victor glares at his friends. They return his dark look with matching innocent faces. “I pretty much begged Darah to keep that horrible nickname to herself.”

Darah pretends to look affronted. Her hands go to her hips, and her mouth drops into a perfect ‘o’ or surprise. “Well, you told me your new boyfriend was damn near psychic! I figured he’d induce it, or whatever you call it.”

“Deduce,” Sherlock corrects. He looks at Victor with raised eyebrows. “Boyfriend?”

“Darah, I’m going to murder you slowly,” Victor grinds out between clenched teeth.

“Never would have pegged him as gay, our Vicky,” Tom butts in. He slings an arm around Victor’s shoulder and starts directing him toward one of the theatres, slipping two tickets into Victor’s hand. “Always had a lady friend, ever since I knew him.”

Sherlock didn’t know it was possible for someone to blush so hard. It’s actually rather—endearing. Victor’s friends obviously enjoy teasing him, and despite all of Victor’s protestations, he doesn’t seem to mind too much. Even as he insists that each one of them will soon enjoy a painful death, he leans into Tom’s arm, reaches out to playfully punch Eric on the shoulder, and smiles at Darah.

The theatre is dark and crowded. It’s the first weekend of some action film in a popular franchise; Eric monologues about it as they find their seats, and Sherlock tunes him out. He doesn’t care about the movie and has no plan to pay attention. This afternoon is just about Victor: meeting his friends, doing something important for him. It’s only fair, after a morning spent catching a criminal. Balance.

As they settle into the seats, Sherlock on the end and Victor to his left, he thinks about John. John never made him go to a movie, but then again—John never _made_ him do much of anything. He’s been more forceful, since he joined the army, more decisive. It kills Sherlock to think that the thing that took John away might actually be good for him, but it’s still true.

He’ll call John soon, he decides. He’s ready for that, at least. It’ll take some time, but soon his chest won’t ache each time he thinks of John, and they’ll be the friends they were before.

And in the meantime—Sherlock props his arm up on the rest between his seat and Victor’s and has to bite back a smirk when Victor does the same thing, the two of them splitting the tiny bit of plastic. The previews were already halfway over when their group finally found their way inside the darkened theatre, and now the opening credits appear onscreen amidst explosions and scantily dressed women.

Sherlock isn’t paying attention to that, however. He is focused on the tiny space between his pinky and Victor’s. Victor rolls his shoulders back, and the movement forces his hand to move, brushing their fingers together lightly, lightly. A shock travels up Sherlock’s arm, but neither of them makes a move to bring their hands that close again.

The main character is blandly handsome as he receives his orders about some secret spy mission or another. Sherlock yawns obviously and ignores the incredulous looks he gets from Victor’s friends.

The plot is dull, and Sherlock promptly tunes it out in favour of observing the actors. The lead actor is blond and blue-eyed, American. He grew up somewhere in the south—he’s not able to fully hide his drawl, although he’s tried to mask it with a more typical American accent. It’s obvious from his stride and his left hand that he’s attracted to men and hiding his preferences due to the rampant homophobia that’s so well-known in Hollywood.

“That man is gay,” Sherlock turns and whispers to Victor. Victor shivers—he actually _shivers_. It gives Sherlock several fun ideas. “You can tell because—“

“That’s Warren Grier,” Victor says in return. He does not look at Sherlock, instead keeping his eyes fixed on the screen. “He’s married and has like two kids. He’s not gay.”

Sherlock scoffs. He presses his lips close to Victor’s ears. “Alright, then. He’s not gay, he just enjoys sex with men in what I’m sure is an entirely heterosexual way.”

Victor cracks a smile and shushes him.

“And that woman, there,” adds Sherlock, his whisper a bit breathier.

“His boss or his love interest?”

“Boss first. She’s been married two—no, three times. Just separated from her third husband, actually, and is already dating someone else.”

Victor turns his head abruptly. Just like last night, their faces hover closer together—so close. If one of them were to be brave, it would change everything.

“And the love interest,” Sherlock says. His gaze dips down to Victor’s mouth and then back up to his eyes.

Victor doesn’t move. “What about her?”

“She is genuinely attracted to the main actor.” His voice sounds a bit huskier than intended.

Victor swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing obviously. “Is she?”

On Victor’s left, Darah leans forward. She fixes the both with a glare that is not nearly as intimidating as it is meant to look. “Hey, you two. Your sexual tension is ruining the film for the rest of us. You can make out after the movie is over, but for now, shut up.”

Chastised, Victor leans all the way back in his seat, slouching down. It’s impossible to tell in the dark theatre, but Sherlock is willing to bet anything that his friend is bright red. He lets out a dramatic sigh and brushes his hand deliberately against Victor’s again, but this time Victor moves his hand off the arm rest and into his lap.

Frustrating.

Sherlock leans over and whispers, “I’m going to the toilet.”

“Okay,” Victor shrugs, eyes forward.

Despite the fact that he is impossibly thick, Sherlock drops a hand to Victor’s thigh and squeezes. He doesn’t spare Victor a glance as he stands up and exits the row, but he can imagine the look of surprise on his friend’s face perfectly.

The lobby is bright after a half hour in the pitch black of the theatre, and he heads straight to the toilets. They’re small and thankfully empty. The door to the single stall stands open, and there’s no one at the urinals. Sherlock brings out his mobile, checks the time to the second. If everything went as he suspects it did, Victor should be joining him in five, four, three, two—

The door to the toilets bangs open, and Sherlock barely has time to feel victorious before Victor’s hands are on the collar of his coat, hauling him around and up against the door. He presses himself until they are flush together and then growls, “You have been teasing me ever since we got here.”

“Not well, apparently,” Sherlock bites back, widening his legs a bit so that Victor can fit more comfortably between them. “As you still haven’t kissed me.”

Victor lunges forward, and their mouths crash together, and all Sherlock can think is _finally_.

Victor’s mouth is hot against his and instantly open—there’s no gentle teasing, no closed-mouth presses of lips. He’s all in, right from the start, and it occurs to Sherlock that he should have known that Victor would kiss this way; passionately, blindly, and with no hesitance. 

He thinks that for all of two seconds, and then his brain short circuits when Victor rolls his tongue in his mouth.

Sherlock moans and his hands fly up to Victor’s hair, to tug at the blond curls there and bring him closer. His leg wraps around Victor’s ankle, ushering him forward until there is no space between them. He can feel something growing against his thigh and deliberately presses into the heat there, smirking against Victor’s mouth when the other man groans.

Victor pulls away, panting. “Why haven’t we been doing this from the moment we met each other?”

“We’re idiots,” Sherlock replies. He tries to capture Victor’s lips again, but the other man turns his head away.

“No, no. Stop. I have to mark this down. Sherlock Holmes just called himself an idiot, this is momentous…” He bursts into giggles at Sherlock’s huff of annoyance, and then abruptly stops when Sherlock begins to kiss his way up Victor’s neck. “Oh God, we should stop.”

Sherlock nips at his earlobe. “Why?”

“Because my friends definitely know what we’re doing in here,” Victor squeaks out. His hips move against Sherlock’s without thought, and they both still at the contact. Victor lets out a breath against Sherlock’s neck; it’s uneven. “And they’ve already revealed that nickname, so who knows what else they’d see fit to mention in order to embarrass me.”

Sherlock le’s his head fall back against the door. He stares at the ceiling and tries to catch his breath. “Isn’t this much more interesting than the movie, though?”

“God, yes, but I’ll never live it down if we stay in here.”

Suddenly, the door moves behind Sherlock. Someone attempts to get in, but under their combined weight, the door only opens a few inches before falling shut again. An angry voice on the other side calls out, “Oi! Who’s in there? I have to piss!”

They catch each other’s eye and burst into laughter. Victor yells back, “Hold on a minute!”

There’s angry muttering on the other side of the door, and then silence. Victor takes a step back and runs a hand over his clothes, straightening them. He then reaches up, touching Sherlock’s curls, fixing his hair. The gesture is so warm, so familiar—it makes Sherlock’s chest feel tight in a pleasant way.

“There we are,” Victor says, smiling. “Almost presentable.”

Quickly, before he can overthink the action, Sherlock leans forward and presses his lips to Victor’s. “Later?”

Victor grins. “Yes. Definitely yes.”

When they exit, the waiting man rolls his eyes at them. They laugh all the way back to their theatre, barely controlling themselves before they head into the darkness of the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, but honestly it was a bitch to write. I'm suffering from some writer's block in regard to this story. Apologies, everyone.
> 
> Leave me a comment here or on my tumblr.


	15. Chapter 15

Darah pushes a pint in Sherlock’s direction, grinning when he wrinkles his nose at it. She takes a sip of her own drink. “So, Sherlock, what was your favorite part of the film?”

It’s the way she’s smiling. She thinks she’s—what, going to embarrass him? Does she really think he’ll blush and stammer and look away, self-conscious in the knowledge that Victor’s friends have obviously come up with a (correct) conclusion about what happened when he and Victor left the theatre?

She obviously doesn’t know him very well.

He opens his mouth to declare that his favorite part of the film was when Victor shoved his tongue down his throat, but then catches sight of Victor’s face: he’s staring at Sherlock with wide, pleading eyes. Confused, Sherlock shifts his gaze around the table. Darah is still smirking, but her shoulders are taught. Tom and Eric look similarly caught between amusement and tension.

Victor’s coming out to them is recent, Sherlock knows that, but he hasn’t truly considered _how_ recent until this moment. They’re trying to prove to him that they don’t care, that they can tease him about this as well as anything else, that it doesn’t matter.

And it doesn’t, not really. They are still here with him, joking with him. None of them show any signs of discomfort with Victor—no, _that_ is being projected directly at Sherlock. But even if they don’t care that Victor is gay, it’s still an adjustment, after years of knowing him as someone straight.

They’re trying. Sherlock looks at Victor’s panicked gaze, and he knows that Victor is aware of that, as well.

He decides to take pity.

“The end,” Sherlock declares.

The other four people at the table break up into laughter. Sherlock watches the tension melt away from their bodies. He said the right thing.

“Aw, come on. You didn’t think the explosions were cool?” Tom asks, resting his elbow on the table and his head on his hand. “I mean, what about that big one there, right at the end?”

“Completely unrealistic. To achieve an explosion of that side, they would have need to have used—“

“There is no way you actually know that,” Tom interrupts.

Victor sighs, but it’s fond. Under the table, he reaches out and squeezes Sherlock’s knee. “Oh, he definitely does. Sherlock’s reading chemistry.”

Eric blinks at Sherlock, suddenly skeptical. “You’re a proper genius, then? Like, a real one, what with your deductions and your chemistry an all.” He looked over at Victor, eyebrows raised. “Why are you with Vicky, then?”

Glaring, Victor slings an arm around Eric’s neck. He messes with his friend’s hair, ignoring the squawks of protest. When he lets Eric go, they both burst into laughter. Victor pushes at Eric’s elbow and then picks up his pint, downing half of it in a few gulps. “Alright, alright. Can we stop with the jokes, now? You lot are ridiculous.”

“And you are drinking like a fish,” Tom replies. He looks pointedly at Victor’s quickly emptying pint. “I think this round is on me. Eric, help me carry the drinks back to the table.”

Eric whines, “Why can’t you make Vicky go instead?” As the pair of them stand, he catches Victor by the sleeve and drags him toward the bar. Victor makes an exasperated face at Sherlock but follows along.

Sherlock watches him go.

“Victor is crazy about you,” Darah says, as soon as they’re alone.

“I’m starting to get that.”

He is. He suspected it before—since their first kiss at the club, at least. The past few days, however, have shown Sherlock that there is something there between them. He’s not sure what the something is, or how to define it. It’s definitely sexual interest, and some sort of romantic as well, but they don’t have definitions, parameters. They haven’t had some sort of “what are we” talk. He’s grateful for that, really; for once, Sherlock doesn’t want to analyse something to death.

If he does, he’s afraid of what he’ll find. Like: Is he doing this for the wrong reasons? How deep do these emotions run, and what do they mean?

Sherlock shakes his head, sending the thoughts away. He likes Victor. He’s liked Victor for a while, he suspects, even if he was only able to recently admit it to himself. Why else would he have kissed him in the club? And yes, he’s in love with John, but those emotions are changing, as well, and—

There’s no use trying to make sense of it, he knows. Emotions don’t make sense. It’s why he doesn’t like them.

Victor is a bit easier to deduce, of course. When Sherlock goes into the part of his mind palace dedicated to Victor (it’s a small room, but rapidly growing), he can remember every moment of the past few months. He can see how Victor always sat a bit too close, stared a bit too long, watched his mouth when he spoke. He can also see how Victor never pushed him, never brought it up.

Why, though? He’s not sure. Because of John? Because he knew how Sherlock felt about John? Does that mean he knows that Sherlock’s feelings are changing?

Romantic entanglements are too complicated, Sherlock thinks. They’re hardly worth it. Then, he thinks back to Victor’s mouth working against his in the bathroom of the cinema and how it felt to have a warm body against his own, and something stirs in his chest.

“—and he said, wait a minute,” Darah’s voice breaks through his thoughts. “You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

Sherlock tunes back in, frowning. “No, I wasn’t.”

Darah stares at him, shocked, before the corner of her mouth twitches. She lets out a hearty laugh, finishing up her drink and pushing the empty glass away from herself. “You’re something else, you know?”

He knows. He’s always known.

Darah doesn’t sound as happy as she did earlier, he notes. Her gaze is pointed at her empty glass as she draws patterns in the condensation left behind. She’s slumped in her seat, and her posture is strangely…defeated. 

Curious, Sherlock reviews what he has said. Nothing pops out at him as overly heinous. He goes back to his previous deductions: a short girl who is reading English Literature and who…oh. Oh.

“I didn’t realize your crush was so recent,” he says.

Her jaw drops, but he closes it quickly. She straightens her shoulders. “And what gave me away?”

“Victor gave you that shirt. His favourite colour, not quite your style. Probably a gift for your most recent birthday. You don’t particularly like it—you got bleach on the collar, which means you don’t take particular care of it. Yet you still wear it when you see him. Still trying to impress him, despite everything,” Sherlock clears his throat. “The necklace you’re wearing, though, is from someone else. I thought maybe it was a new…prospect.”

Although she is frowning, Darah nods her head thoughtfully. “It’s from my father, actually. For my birthday last week.”

Sherlock’s lip curls. “Father, of course. There’s always something…”

“He didn’t really come out, you know,” she says. There’s a note of something in her voice that Sherlock struggles to identify. Maybe disappointment? “A few months ago he starts mentioning you all the time, and then suddenly he can’t hang out because of Sherlock, and I know I sound bitter right now, and I’m sorry because that’s not what I am, not really. And then, like two months or so ago, Eric makes this joke about him being in love with you, and he just went bright red.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. He can’t think of how he is supposed to respond to this.

Darah laughs a bit. The smile she sends him is mostly sincere. “He doesn’t really talk about it at all, but after he dumped Lindsey, we all just sort of…figured, you know? That he was gay. And we’re all fine with it, I mean that, but I can’t pretend I’m not a little disappointed.”

Words are still escaping him. Should he apologize? He isn’t sorry. Victor’s gay, and he never would have been interested in Darah, anyway. Sherlock’s done nothing wrong. After a moment, he says, “Okay.”

“You’re probably like, ‘why is this crazy girl talking about this?’ I just wanted to ask you to, you know, keep it to yourself. If you don’t mind.” She bites her lip. “He doesn’t know. Bit oblivious, Vicky is, and I’d like to keep him that way.”

Sherlock nods. “Alright. Of course.”

She gives him a grateful smile, and then Tom comes back, a beer in each hand, and declares, “Alright, your arseholes, let’s get pissed!”

\--

In the back of a cab on the way back to the flat, Victor leans into him heavily. His head lolls on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I think I drank too much,” he mumbles, his voice thick and slurred.

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. “You drank three pints too many. You’re going to have a horrible hangover tomorrow morning, and don’t think for a second that I am going to take care of you.”

Despite Sherlock’s harsh words, Victor only cuddles in closer. His hair tickles Sherlock’s neck. “That’s just mean. You bought one of those pints, you know. This is par-partial…” he seems to lose track of the word and lets out a sigh, “Your fault, too.”

There’s something unbearably sweet about Victor like this, all pliant and soft and close. He smells like he went for a swim in a lake made out of beer, however, and that puts a bit of a damper on Sherlock’s more delicate feelings. “I bought your first drink. You’re responsible for each one you had after that.”

“You’re warm,” Victor says in response. His hand slips around Sherlock’s waist, pulling him closer. “I like it.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Sherlock answers. He glances up at the cab driver, whose eyes quickly dart away from the rearview mirror.

“I like _you_.” Victor hiccups into his chest. “So much.”

Sherlock feels his chest tighten. “I know.”

Victor giggles into his shoulder. “You’re supposed to say it back, you arse. And then we make out again because that was fun.”

The cab driver snorts and then tries to cover it with a hacking cough when Sherlock glares at her. He turns back to his inebriated friend and reaches up and slowly, tentatively pushes the hair away from his forehead. Victor presses into the contact, and there’s something about the movement—it’s not sexual in any way, but there’s something in the closeness of it, the familiarity of the contact that makes Sherlock suddenly resent how drunk Victor is.

“Tomorrow. Probably not before three in the afternoon.”

“What?” Victor pulls away and his eyes are sleepy and hazed. “Why are you making me wait forever?”

Sherlock exhales through his nose. “It’s not my preference. But you’re too drunk tonight, and based on your body weight and the amount of alcohol you consumed, you’ll feel too hungover until three o clock tomorrow.”

Victor unwraps his arm from Sherlock’s middle to check his watch. “It’s only ten in the evening! And I’m going to feel like shit until tomorrow afternoon?” He groans. “That’s depressing. Thanks, Sherly.”

Wrinkling his nose, Sherlock says, “No problem, Vicky.”

Victor giggles again. “Okay, okay. Point taken. Not Sherly. Something else, then. Lock? Locky? The Sherlock Ness Monster?”

At the last one, Sherlock barks out a laugh. He drops his hand to Victor’s where it circles his waist. Their fingers tangle. “You could use my first name, if you wanted.”

“I already _call_ you Sherlock,” Victor pouts.

“That’s not my first name.”

At this, Victor pulls back. His brow is furrowed in confusion. “Then what is…?”

“William. After my maternal grandfather. My older brother is named Mycroft, you know, and he was teased in first years at school for his unusual name. When I was born, my father was insistent that I should be named Sherlock, after his grandfather, but my mother wanted me to have the option for something a bit more normal.” He shrugs. “They reached a compromise.”

“William Sherlock Holmes?”

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Victor stares at him. He still looks fuzzy, unaware, but his face breaks out into a giant grin and he says, “ _William._ ”

He leans in and presses his mouth to Sherlock’s for a sloppy kiss and then pulls away, letting his head drop back down onto Sherlock’s shoulder. He grows so quiet that for a moment Sherlock thinks he might have drifted off to sleep.

Then, suddenly, Sherlock’s mobile begins to ring.

“Jesus!” Victor mutters. “That scared the shite out of me.” He reaches into Sherlock’s coat pocket and fishes out his phone.

John’s name appears on the screen. They both freeze.

Everything fires inside of Sherlock’s brain at once, and he plucks the mobile out of Victor’s hand. He hits the ignore button on the screen and then shoves the device back into his jacket. He tries to relax back into his previous pose, but the atmosphere has changed. Even Victor, in his inebriated state, notices. He pulls back.

“You could have picked up,” Victor says. He is slurring a bit, but the moment seems to have sobered him.

Sherlock swallows thickly. “It’s fine.”

“No, really. You should call him back. I know you want to.”

No accusation. No anger. Sherlock sighs. He can’t find the words he wants to say. He’s not sure he actually wants to say anything.

“William,” Victor leans up to kiss Sherlock’s cheek. “call him when we get back to mine. Okay?”

Sherlock nods stiffly. “Okay.”

\--

The cab pulls up a moment later. Sherlock pays with pound notes he sneaks out of Victor’s wallet. He’ll notice tomorrow, but Sherlock doesn’t care. He loops his arms around Victor’s waist and half-drags him to his room, shoving him into bed. He takes off Victor’s shoes, but doesn’t bother with the rest of his clothes. If Victor doesn’t like it, he can change his clothes himself.

Once Victor is safely tucked in bed, Sherlock heads back into the living room. He sits on the couch and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. He grabs his mobile and swipes at the screen, unlocking it. He goes to his missed calls and hits John’s number.

John picks up after the first ring. “Sherlock!”

His voice. Sherlock closes his eyes, letting the sound of John’s voice wash over him. It’s been a few weeks since he’s heard it, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed it. He finds himself smiling despite himself. “Hi, John.”

“Oh my God. It’s so good to hear from you,” John sounds genuinely relieved. Sherlock wishes he could see his face. “I’m glad you called me back.”

“Yes, me too.”

The silence sets in between them. Sherlock breathes out and static clogs up the line. John makes no noise to indicate what he is doing, and it drives Sherlock mad.

“So,” John says. “How’s uni?”

“Dull. The army?”

“Difficult. Are you mad at me?”

Sherlock sighs. “No. I’m alright, John. I—it was difficult, but you were right. You want the army, and you shouldn’t have to feel bad for pursuing something that you want.”

“That’s...thank you. I am glad you said that, I really am.” John coughs a little. Is he sick? Sherlock can’t see him, can’t tell. He hates the distance, but now it’s easier to accept that he can’t change it. “I never meant to hurt you. That’s the opposite of what I want.” He sounds strained. “Are we okay? Or—I mean, will we be?”

Sherlock looks at his feet, the coffee table, the terrible painting on Victor’s wall. He feels—strangely calm. “Of course we will be.”

“Good.” Sherlock can hear the smile in John’s voice. “Good. And I have some news for you! I haven’t even told my parents yet.”

“Oh?” Sherlock asks. “What news?”

“I’m coming home in six weeks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a bit of a challenge to write this, but I'm finally feeling a bit more myself with this story. :) Thanks for your patience, everyone!
> 
> Also! A bit of a shameless plug, but if you're a fan of sports AUs--I'm a former competitive figure skater and am posting a figure skating AU in honor of the Olympics. Check it out!
> 
> Let me know how you like the chapter here or at my tumblr.


	16. Chapter 16

“You can’t get her a chemistry set. She’s turning ten, Sherlock, she doesn’t even know what chemistry is!”

Sherlock sighs and frowns at the pink surrounding him on all sides. Do toy stores think girls prefer no other colour? Do they not know that for many years, pink was attributed to boys and blue to girls and that the link between pink and femininity is actually quite recent? It seems like something someone in their line of work ought to know.

“Everything else is ghastly,” Sherlock complains. He picks up a Barbie doll in a tutu. The box boasts that her joints make it easy for her to be posed. Her smile is eerily manic and Sherlock sets the box back on the shelf. “I deduce that whoever makes toys for young girls must be deranged.”

“She likes stuffed animals,” John says. “Just get her a teddy bear or something. She’ll love it. She’ll probably name it after you.”

The stuffed animals are at the end of the aisle, and Sherlock goes there. His lips curls in distaste. Everything is plush and fluffy with ridiculously oversized eyes. “None of these animals are anatomically correct.”

John erupts into laughter. “That’s not why people buy stuffed animals, you berk.”

“Then perhaps that accounts for why children are such idiots,” Sherlock bites back. The smile at the corner of his mouth softens his words. “I don’t know. What did you get her?”

“My mum put my name on something. I don’t actually know what. I didn’t have any time to go shopping this year.” He sighs. “Don’t bring it up. I feel bad enough about it, as is.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He knows John can’t see the gesture, but he hopes it manages to be conveyed through his tone alone. “You’re in the army. It doesn’t exactly afford many opportunities for you to go on a shopping trip. She’ll understand.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. She’s only ten.” John clears his throat. “It’ll be fine. I’ll see her in a few weeks, after all.”

Five weeks, to be exact. Since John told him seven days earlier that he was going to be home for a weekend, Sherlock has been torn between excitement and terror. They’ve been apart for months and months, and the thought of looking at John’s face, seeing him smile, hearing him laugh—it fills Sherlock with a kind of joy that scares him.

Things have drastically changed between them, however, and Sherlock is more afraid that he wants to admit. What if things are awkward or stilted between them? What if he sees John and it’s painful?

What if it isn’t?

Staying apart had been a painful decision, but as much as it kills Sherlock to admit it, it was the right one. Rejection was a miserable experience, but with it came clarity: Sherlock is free to do what he pleases.

Or who. He thinks of Victor and a little shiver goes down his spine.

Since their first kiss, things have been progressing slowly. They’ve kissed exactly seventeen times, including one rather glorious snogging session on Victor’s couch when they were supposed to be watching some space film that Victor likes. He’d just straddled Victor’s lap when Victor had turned his head away, panting against his neck and insisting they needed to calm down.

Sherlock scowls at the memory, and a row of Barbies grin blankly back at him. After weeks of what felt like the world’s slowest foreplay, they’re stuck in yet _another_ rut. He’s spent months feeling dejected and alone, and now that he’s finally found someone interesting and charming and (quite frankly) fit, the fool decides he wants to move at the pace of molasses.

It’s frustrating in more ways than one.

He hasn’t told John. He doesn’t know how. Each time he thinks about bringing it up, the words shrivel and die on his tongue. He knows that he needs to broach the subject, warn John that things have changed, let him know what to expect when he returns home—and he will, there’s no doubt about that. He _will_ tell John. Eventually.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock huffs out, quickly exiting the entirely-pink aisle. “There is nothing there that Harry will find remotely interesting. I am getting her a chemistry set. She will love learning how to blow things up.”

“That’s pretty much exactly my fear,” John replies. “You might want to clear it with my parents first, you know.”

Sherlock heads toward the practical toys. It takes a moment to locate a beginner’s chemistry set, and he plucks it off the wall triumphantly. “Why bother? They’ll probably say no.”

“Oh, God. If I did that, they would murder me. You’re lucky they love you so much.”

Smirking, Sherlock says, “Luck has nothing to do with it. I’m very charming.”

At the front of the store, there’s the sound of the bell signaling someone’s entrance, followed quickly by a crash and a shouted, “Oh, sorry!” Sherlock sighs. These are undoubtedly the sounds of Victor making yet another graceful entrance. The man walks like he’s constantly surprised by his own feet.

“Hold on,” he mutters into the phone. He walks to the end of the aisle and spots Victor by the front door, apologizing profusely and trying to pick up an armful of boxes of Legos. He nearly drops them all again and the shopkeeper shoos him away, proclaiming him a nuisance. After he sets the Legos back down on the floor, he manages to spot Sherlock, visibly relaxing with relief.

He moves quickly to Sherlock’s side. “Oh my God, I can’t believe—oh, you’re on the phone.”

It’s impossible to ignore the note of disappointment in Victor’s tone. He’s been very supportive of Sherlock re-establishing a connection with John; at least, he’s been very vocal on the importance of maintaining that friendship. His body language speaks a different story. Victor is undeniably jealous.

Sherlock is caught somewhere between being annoyed and being very, very flattered. At the moment, however, he leans toward annoyance. “I’m buying a present for Harry’s birthday, so I thought it best to get John’s opinion.”

“Is that Victor?” John asks.

Victor’s quirks an eyebrow. “John thinks it’s best you get her a chemistry set?”

“I said I called him for his opinion, not that I planned on listening to it. He has appalling taste.” Sherlock declares, smirking a bit when John’s affronted “hey!” is so loud that even Victor can hear it. “I’m going to pay now. Maybe you should wait outside so that the owner doesn’t murder you for ruining his display.”

Looking over his shoulder, Victor spies the shopkeeper on his hands and knees, tidying the display and periodically sending him withering glares.

“Probably a good idea. I’ll be in the store next door if you need me, alright?” He reaches out and touches Sherlock’s shoulder, his fingertips tracing down the length of his arm.

Sherlock bites his lip and smiles as Victor backs up toward the front of the store. He isn’t watching where he is going and nearly takes out another display. He blushes crimson under blond curls and heads toward the front of the store, refusing to catch the owner’s eye as he makes his way outside.

“What happened?”

John’s voice in his ear snaps him back to what he was doing. The goofy smile on his face disappears, and he clears his throat. “Victor is not what you would call coordinated. He took out an entire tower of toys when he walked in.”

John snorts. “Sounds charming.”

 _It is_ , Sherlock thinks, but he manages to keep the words firmly inside his own mind.

He takes a moment to pay for the chemistry set, and a minute later he is out of the store, hand gripping the handles of a plastic bag. Once outside, he takes a deep breath of London air. Victor had driven them down so they could go shopping and drop off Harry’s present. The plan is to take Sherlock to the train station when they’re done here so that Victor can go back home and join his father for Christmas eve.

Sherlock is going to spend Christmas alone in Victor’s Cambridge flat. No amount of wheedling on Victor’s part had been able to change Sherlock’s mind, and he eventually resigned himself to letting Sherlock spend the holiday by himself. He still isn’t happy about it, he likes to remind Sherlock, but Sherlock knows it is for the best.

“I am going to have Victor drive me to your parents’ place, and then I’m going to drop off Harry’s present. Want me to say anything for you?”

“Don’t worry about it,” John replies, “I’m going to Skype with them tomorrow.” There’s a long pause, and then he adds, “Do you want me to Skype you, too?”

Sherlock closes his eyes against the thought. Scenes from last Christmas play on the backs of his lids. He clears his throat. “Would you be offended if I said no?”

“Would you care if I was offended?” John asks, but his tone is teasing.

“Probably.”

John laughs out loud. “That may be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Shut up. I’m going to ring off now. Happy Christmas, John.”

“Happy Christmas. Call you in a few days?”

“Yes. Bye.”

Sherlock ends the call as he enters the clothes shop. He spots Victor immediately, holding up an oxford shirt and inspecting the stitching on one of the shirt cuffs with a frown. He’s so caught up that he doesn’t notice as Sherlock sidles up to his side and whispers, “I can’t believe you ever convinced anyone you were straight.”

Victor jumps in surprise and then turns and swats Sherlock on his upper arm. “You scared the shite out of me!” He holds the shirt up to his torso. “What do you think? Yea or nay?”

The colour is all wrong for Victor; he’s too pale and blond to be able to pull off white without a proper jacket, which Sherlock knows he does not own. It doesn’t look like Victor’s style at all; really, it’s something that Sherlock would look at. Or, well, an approximation of something Sherlock would look at. It’s not high enough quality to be anything that would turn Sherlock’s head.

It makes him remember that these are the types of things he will have to buy when he replaces something. His budget from Mycroft doesn’t allow for trips to Saville Row.

Being cut off is such a pain.

“Nay. You need something with a pop of colour, or you’ll wash yourself out.”

A smile curls the corner of Victor’s lip. “I can believe those words just came out of your mouth.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Shut up and stop being an idiot.”

Victor hangs the shirt back up on the shelf and makes his way toward the exit. Sherlock falls into step at his side, and is surprised when he feels warm fingers reach out and brush against his own. A moment later, they are heading back to Victor’s car, hand in hand.

Holding hands with Victor is pleasant. His hands are never sweaty or uncomfortable in Sherlock’s own; they’re dry and warm and strong, and Sherlock desperately wants to know what else Victor’s hands are capable of. If only Victor were more interested in that, as well.

Once inside the car, they take a short drive to the Watsons. Sherlock grabs the present—unwrapped, but she would simply tear the paper off anyway, so why both with that?—and heads to the front door, ringing the bell.

No answer. He rings again, and then knocks just in case the ringer is broken.

No one is home, and the realization stings; once, he would have known that, but now Sherlock is no longer aware of their schedule or able to predict where the Watsons will be at any given point in a day. It hurts, but the pain is dull, rather than sharp.

He considers leaving the chemistry set on their front porch, but this is London and the rain is never far away. It’s probably best not to leave chemicals out in the wet and cold, even if they are from a beginners set and therefore not very dangerous. He sighs and fishes a receipt out of his coat pocket, and then heads back to Victor, who is waiting in the car.

“Not home?” Victor asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Do you have a pen?”

There’s one in the drink holder, and Sherlock grabs it and scrawls out a quick note, telling Harry that he’s bought her a present and is sorry to have missed them. He promises to send it in the post as soon as possible and wishes her a happy birthday, then sticks the note in the Watsons’ letterbox. He slides back into the car and is grateful when Victor doesn’t mention his obvious disappointment during their silent ride to the train station. 

Victor pulls into the car park and shuts his car down, turning toward Sherlock with a nervous expression. “You sure you have your ticket with you?”

There’s something about Victor’s nervous fidgeting that cheers Sherlock. Having grown up under the wing of his overprotective older brother, he’s always chafed against rules and regulations. John was always able to manage nagging him without making it annoying, but that made sense; John is extraordinary. He is easily the most impressive person in any room without ever opening his mouth or trying too hard.

Victor is dull and ordinary and he should be boring, boring, boring—and yet he isn’t. Sherlock hasn’t quite figured it out yet. He’s his own sort of mystery, the least part of which is that he’s able to nag Sherlock to death without making him feel murderous.

Sherlock does his best to send a smile. “Yes, mother hen, I’m sure.” 

“Stop. I worry about you. I can’t help it.”

The silence hangs between them, and then Sherlock rolls his eyes and leans forward, deliberately capturing Victor’s mouth with his own. Victor quickly cottons on, and a moment later his tongue runs delicately across Sherlock’s lower lip.

Sherlock moans and reaches around to the back of Victor’s neck, drawing him closer, demanding more. Victor turns his head away, his heavy pants landing somewhere on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“If you don’t go now,” he rasps, “then you are definitely going to miss the train.”

Sherlock smirks, aware that Victor can’t see the expression. “Would you promise to make it worth my while?”

Victor laughs and backs away, leaning into his seat. “Sherlock Holmes, you’re going to be the death of me.”

Leaning across the centre panel, Sherlock pecks at Victor’s cheek. He grabs the plastic bag at his feet and opens the passenger side door. “You’ll be back on the 26th, right?”

Victor nods. “I don’t want to leave you alone too long.” He bites his lip, and slumps a little, suddenly shy and barely managing to add, “I’ll miss you.”

Halfway out of the car, Sherlock freezes. He stares at Victor, who is rapidly turning red under his gaze. “What?”

“Nevermind,” says Victor, turning back toward his steering wheel.

Sherlock hesitates. Is he supposed to say it back? True, he’s used to spending almost all his time with Victor, but it’s only a few days. Less than 48 hours. Is it bad that he’s not sure whether or not he’s truly going to miss Victor in that time period?

Still, it’s obvious even to him that he can’t leave on this note, so he settles back into his seat and closes the door. He reaches out and grabs Victor’s chin, forcing him to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “Hey. Don’t do that. I’ll miss you, too.”

Victor’s expression is soft and open and wondering; he is wide-eyed and vulnerable, and Sherlock is hit with a palpable wave of knowledge at just how much Victor likes him. Likes _him_. Victor sounds a bit smaller than usual as he says, “You will?”

“Of course I will.” Sherlock is not strictly sure that that is true, but there is no harm that he can see in saying it. It makes Victor happy, after all, and he’ll likely be bored without Victor, which is practically the same thing.

Victor leans in for a sweet kiss, and when he pulls away, he is unable to keep back the grin on his face. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Right,” Sherlock nods. He gets out of the car again, closing the door behind him. Victor waves goodbye, and so he does as well. He watches as Victor backs out of his parking space and heads back out onto the road. When his car disappears around the corner, Sherlock heads into the train station.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose it should be obvious, but as a precaution: I don't own Barbie or anything under copyright by Mattel.
> 
> Writer's block is gone! Hooray!
> 
> I gained a lot of new subscribers! Where did you all come from!? Either way, I'm happy to see you. Hello!
> 
> So, ever since Victor was introduced into this story, I've been asked again and again: is this story going to end with Viclock or Johnlock? I know everyone has OTPs and preferences, etc., and that is perfectly fine. You are in no way obligated to read my story! I understand that you might only like one certain couple. That being said, I'm not just going to...tell you a major plot point. Haha. I wrote a small blog that you can read here, if you are interested.
> 
> If you have any questions, please feel free to ask them. I love talking to you guys; getting a message here or on tumblr makes my day. You're allowed to ask whatever you want as long as you understand that I might not answer you.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and I'll see you next week!


	17. Christmas Interlude

_Happy Xmas, Sherlock! By the way, this is Mrs. W._

_Harry asked very rudely after the present you promised her because she is a naughty thing. It was very sweet of you think of her at all. Sorry we missed you when you came to drop it off! She’s going to be waiting by the letterbox every day until it arrives, I think, but feel free to take your time to teach her a lesson. ;)_

_Did I do the face thing correctly?_

\--

_Merry Christmas! I know you said not to call you today, but how about tomorrow or the next day? I have exact dates for my leave, and I thought we could start planning._

_Your silence indicates a disturbing lack of holiday spirit. Talk to you soon?_

\--

_Don’t go through my things._

_Oh, God. I should have said that yesterday. I’m sure you’ve ransacked the place by now._

_That was an attempt at levity._

_My dad is asking what happened with Lindsey. I wish I weren’t so scared to tell him the truth._

_Hello?_

_I’ll be back tomorrow evening. I was going to try for the morning, but my dad is guilting me for not coming home very often. Sorry._

_Miss you._

_Merry Christmas_

\--

_Happy Christmas, little brother. I deposited a little bit more into your account this week, as a present._

_Things seem to be going well with your new beau._

_Piss off, Mycroft. SH_

\--

Sherlock tosses his mobile away as it chimes with Mycroft’s reply. It bounces of the couch cushion and falls to the floor. The screen is thankfully face down; he doesn’t have the stomach to read any more well wishes. Christmas is dull, people are dull, everything is dull, dull, _dull_.


	18. Chapter 17

Victor walks through the front door, wiping his feet absently on the mat as he thumbs through the post. Sprawled on the couch with his head on the arm rest, Sherlock watches as Victor enters the room, frowning at a particular bill.

“How would you feel if I just stopped paying for heat?” Victor mutters. He flips to the next letter, and then the next. When he pulls out one with a bright blue envelope, he cocks his head to the side, examines it. “Isn’t Harry Watson your friend John’s little sister?”

Most likely a thank you note for her birthday present, Sherlock assumes. Despite Mrs. Watson’s cheeky insistence that he make her wait, Sherlock had mailed it the day after Christmas. He reaches back up over his head and opens his palm out flat, snapping when Victor doesn’t immediately drop the letter into his hand.

Once Victor hands over the note, Sherlock pulls it to his chest. He rips open the envelope and pulls out the generic card. It has a butterfly on it, which is more than enough for Sherlock to know that Harry had no voice in picking it out.

On the inside in her messy child’s scrawl, Harry details the series of experiments she’s conducting. It sounds as though she’s already figured out how to make a volcano, complete with fake lava. Sherlock is suddenly glad he never answered Mrs. Watson’s texts from Christmas day.

He’s just finishing up a sentence wherein Harry described her “hipothosiss” to him when he realizes that Victor has not moved. He’s still in the same spot, still holding the post; he silently watches Sherlock read the card and then stuff it back in the open envelope.

Sherlock blinks. “Can I help you?”

Victor visibly fights a smile. “I didn’t forget, you know.”

Oh, no. “Forget what?”

“Nice try.”

With his customary lack of grace, Victor dumps the post onto the empty coffee table in front of Sherlock and the couch. He then grabs Sherlock’s legs and lifts them up, sliding under them and placing them back in his lap. When Sherlock tries to move away, Victor’s hands grab at his ankles.

“Nope. You’re not getting away that easy.” The bastard has the temerity to grin at Sherlock; Sherlock hates that he starts to return the expression without any awareness that he is doing so.

Victor’s expression turns sly as he walks his fingers up Sherlock’s leg. “So, where does Birthday Boy want to go for dinner?”

Sherlock kicks his leg but doesn’t get very far. For someone so slender, Victor is strong. “Who said anything about going to dinner?”

Victor goggles at him. “Me. About seventeen times in the past three days.”

“Did you?”

“Yes.” He pouts a bit. “And we also had a conversation about that thing you do where you don’t listen when I talk.”

It is difficult to keep his expression neutral, but Sherlock manages it. He stares at the ceiling. “Did we?”

“I am only letting you get away with what you’re doing right now because it’s your birthday.”

Sherlock can’t help himself. “Are you?”

His feet thud to the ground as Victor pushes them away. A second later, Victor is on top of him, laughing as he presses kisses against his mouth.

“You,” kiss, “are,” kiss, “the worst.”

Sherlock smirks. “Am—“

The kiss turns hotter, greedier. Trying not to disturb Victor’s position (and mostly failing), Sherlock manages to get his feet back up on the couch. Victor automatically pushes his knee between Sherlock’s legs in response, his thigh pressing directly against Sherlock’s cock; it feels far better than anything has a right to.

He whimpers, nips lightly at Victor’s bottom lip. Tentative, Victor pulls back and swivels his hips, creating friction. His eyes fall shut, and Sherlock watches how his expression changes, categorizing the way his brow furrows, how he wrinkles his nose, the perfect ‘o’ of his mouth.

Victor pants out, “This is not helping us pick a place for dinner.”

Sherlock pushes up and into Victor’s hips, relishing the look of bliss that is framed by blond curls and hanging above him. “Isn’t this more fun?”

“You’re distracting me.”

“Well,” Sherlock says as he hooks his ankle over the back of Victor’s leg. “It’s not working, if you’re still able to talk.”

Victor laughs and collapses with a huff onto Sherlock’s chest. There’s a brief pause, and then Sherlock feels him kiss his neck. It goes from a chaste press of lips to a nibbling at his pulse point to a determined lick. Despite himself, Sherlock shivers.

He can’t see Victor’s face, but he knows the bastard is smirking.

“Here’s the deal,” Victor tells him, his breath hot against Sherlock’s fevered skin. “You can name a restaurant, and then we can go back to having a lovely snog on the couch, _or_ ,” his hand travels down Sherlock’s side until it reaches the hem of his shirt. His fingertips rest there, not moving higher. “You can persist in being difficult and refuse to cooperate, and I can get up and leave you here to have a lonely, lonely wank.”

“You think I’d have a wank on your couch because of you teasing me?” Sherlock scoffs. His incredulous tone is a complete bluff. If Victor leaves him, he will definitely have a wank. He probably would have removed himself to the bathroom, prior to Victor’s suggestion, but now he thinks he would do it on the couch just to be rude.

Victor laves at the area just below his ear. His stupid body quivers in response. _Traitor_ , he thinks.

There’s a warm chuckle against his throat and then deliberate pressure against his groin. “Any restaurant, William. Any at all.”

Sherlock is sure his eyes just rolled back in his head. He chokes out, “The thai place around the corner!”

Victor sags against him in relief. He grinds out, “Thank God,” and then puts his mouth to better use.

\--

The restaurant is tiny and cramped, a handful of tables in the dining room and some booths against the wall. As they walk inside, Sherlock takes note of the front counter; the girl behind it is sixteen, at most. She seems nervous, with the way she keeps fidgeting with a pen and tugging at a stray piece of hair. An overweight man with a terrible moustache sits on a bench by the counter. He’s angry—the cause of the girl’s nerves, then. Most likely he’s ordered takeaway and it’s taking longer than expected.

A gentle hand on the curve of his spine brings him back to reality. Victor sends him a soft smile, and he feels himself returning it until a distinct snort from the waiting customer breaks the moment.

Sherlock glances over at the man, his eyes narrowing when he sees the disdainful look he is giving them. Homophobic, then. Some people have nothing better to do with their lives.

The hand automatically drops away as Victor self-consciously bites his lip and stares at the ground. A pulse of hurt goes through Sherlock’s chest. Some part of his brain remembers that Victor is new to this; he’s spent his sexually cognizant years masquerading as a straight man and is therefore not used to the stares and eye rolls and idiocy of the general population.

Intellectually, Sherlock knows he shouldn’t push Victor. However, the portion of his brain dedicated to higher reason is inconsequential against his indignation, and he ignores it in favor of reaching down and grasping Victor’s hand. It earns him a nasty look before the man turns back toward the counter, his arms crossed and his expression annoyed.

“Was that necessary?” Victor mutters. He does not move away from Sherlock’s grasp.

Sherlock squeezes gently. “Absolutely.”

“You can seat yourself wherever you like,” the girl behind the counter tells them, giving a shaky smile and then heading into the kitchen.

Victor doesn’t drop his hand until they sit on opposite sides of the booth in the corner. Even in the dim light of the restaurant, his blush glows. Sherlock opens his mouth, but Victor cuts him off with a kick to his ankle and a stern, “Don’t you say a word.”

The menus are in a holder at the back of the table, and they each grab one. None of the options sound particularly appealing; Sherlock had hoped that if he ignored Victor’s prattling on about dinner, Victor would take the hint and stop asking about it. That plan hadn’t gone according to his hopes, but he _had_ got a rather delightful snog out of it, so it is hard for Sherlock to be bitter about being forced to eat.

“Do you know what you’re getting?” Victor asks. He stares down at his menu, intent. His lower lip pouts when he concentrates, and Sherlock makes a note of that observation.

Sherlock glances down at the menu and picks out the first thing he sees. “Yes. Drunken noodles.”

“You know, that actually sounds pretty—“

There’s a tremendous _bang_ of flesh against wood at the front of the store, and they both jump in surprise. Sherlock turns his focus to the homophobic man who had glared at them only minutes earlier; he is standing in front of the timid, teenaged cashier, red-faced and snarling.

“For fuck’s sake!” He yells, slamming his fists down on the counter top a second time. “What is taking so bloody long?”

The girl cowers, staring up at him with wide eyes. “I j-just spoke to the cook, sir, like I said, and—“

“This is the worst fucking service I’ve ever had. How fucking long does it take to cook some fucking noodles?”

Victor turns his face into his menu but catches Sherlock’s eyes over the top of it. “Who let Gordon Ramsey in here?”

“Who’s Gordon Ramsey? Is that some pop culture reference I should know?”

Victor’s reply is drowned out by the continued wailing of the unhappy customer. “Six years I’ve been coming here, and this is the first time I’ve ever been made to wait like this. This is a bloody joke, I’m telling you. Ever since your boss hired you lot, this place has really gone downhill.”

“Jesus, that guy is a twat. That girl looks like she’s twelve. What does he expect her to do?” Victor shakes his head.

“Do you want me to shut him up?”

Quirking a brow, Victor says, “You think you can?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Go ahead, then. Impress me.”

With deliberate care, Sherlock folds his menu and replaces it in the holder. He clasps his now empty hands together and rests them on the tabletop, and then he does what he does best: he studies.

He takes in everything he can about the unpleasant customer, his eyes raking over him, before he breaks out into a smile. When he turns back to Victor, he winks once.

‘My God, what are arse,” he pronounces, loudly. His voice carries well in the small restaurant (the benefits of having a deep baritone), and everyone turns to look at him. Despite the fact that his eyes are firmly trained on Victor, all of the other patrons seem to instinctually know who he is talking about. They glance surreptitiously at the rapidly flushing stranger in front of the counter. “As if the sixteen year old who is on her first week at this job has any sort of control over how quickly his food is prepared.”

The man ceases yelling. Victor holds Sherlock’s gaze, rapt.

“He’s just a bully, isn’t he? His wife hasn’t been interested in him sexually since his hair started thinning, and he compensates by eating too much, which doesn’t help his problem.” Sherlock slouches back into the booth. He does not look over. He doesn’t need to, to know exactly what he is accomplishing. “And now he’s taking out his feelings of inadequacy on some poor kid. What a miserable prick.”

Case made, Sherlock allows himself the pleasure of glimpsing to the left. The man has sat himself back down on the bench. He is bright red and silent, staring at the floor. The girl behind the counter is similarly shocked, but there’s a smile curling at the corner of her mouth.

A moment later, a cook appears from the back, carrying a bag of food. “Mr. Norman?”

The man stands and hurries to the counter, grabbing the bag and practically running out the front door. As soon as he’s gone, one of the other tables lets out a slow clap. A few other customers join in. The waitress bursts into the dining room, walking quickly toward the table. Her smile is effervescent, touching her pretty, almond-shaped eyes.

“Your meal is on me tonight,” she says, practically skipping, “I’m not allowed to say anything to customers like that because my dad owns this place and would disown me if I lost him any business, but you! You totally didn’t have to do that.” She claps her hands together, delighted. “You two celebrating anything?”

Sherlock says “no” at the same time Victor says, “It’s his birthday!”

“Dessert, then!” She grins. “And whatever else you’d like, of course. What would you like, by the way?”

They order and the girl grins at them before heading back to the other table and then into the kitchen. Victor turns to watch her go. When he looks back at Sherlock, he is laughing. “You are ridiculous. And mad. And wonderful.”

“Told you I could do it,” Sherlock preens.

“You did. You…” Victor breaks off and looks down at the tablet. He traces a finger around a whorl in the lacquered wood. “I feel like I ought to ask you something. I’ve been trying to do since Christmas, but I keep _not_ saying it, and I don’t know why, or well, I do, but—“

Sherlock frowns. Victor is babbling, which in and of itself is not an unusual occurrence, but it’s taken on a nervous edge that makes his stomach tighten into a knot. Why would he be nervous? What is there to be worried about? They are at a dinner Victor insisted they attend. Sherlock just showed off at Victor’s request (and also because he likes it, but that’s hardly the point).

He doesn’t understand. He hates not understanding things. Emotions are so inconvenient. “Why are you so anxious?” he asks.

“I just—you need to understand that it’s fine, you know, and I mean that. It’s not about you, it’s about me, and how I…” He trails off again, licks his lips. “You know how I feel. I’m just… _overwhelmed_ by you. I’ve never met anyone like you, and I’m in so deep. You must know that.”

Sherlock swallows. Victor is tense. Why is Victor tense? They were having a nice time just a minute ago. 

“I’m not sure I see your point,” he says carefully. “What are you trying to say?”

“Are you—and it’s fine if you are, really, I mean that, I just need to know—but how do you feel about…” He clears his throat. “Well, about John.”

Sherlock’s brain crashes and then reboots. By the time he’s listening again, Victor has resumed babbling. “—silent, oh my God, I knew this was the wrong time, but I just couldn’t hold it in any longer, and I know how much you cared, or care, I suppose, for him, and it’s fine, I’m not trying to pressure you, I just need to _know_ , you understand.”

“Why?”

Victor seems taken aback to hear Sherlock’s voice. “Why what?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“Oh. Well, because. I…I’m crazy about you, I really am, and I just want to know where you are at, emotionally. I’m not angry, I promise I’m not. I’m not jealous, either. Or well, maybe a bit, but not much. I don’t think that’s my primary motivation. It’s just that I worry all the time, that I’m falling for someone who is…”

Sherlock feels a bubble of anger build in his stomach. “Who is what, precisely?”

“Not ready yet? I don’t know. I’m not trying to push you, I swear I’m not, I’m just trying to see where I stand, and…” Victor puts his elbows on the table and drops his head into his hands. His voice comes out muffled when he asks, “Can we forget I said anything?”

Victor is worried. Worried about him, worried that he isn’t—what? Entirely dedicated to a new relationship? That he’s weak or inconstant? That he, Victor, is some sort of placeholder for Sherlock, something ( _someone_ ) to do while waiting for John to return from the army?

“That’s not very fair of you,” Sherlock says, his voice even and unaffected. He’s good at that; growing up the way he did, with his cruel father and his unemotional older brother. Concealing his emotions is one of his specialties. None of the tumult inside of him shows on his face. He isn’t hungry anymore.

Victor nods miserably, moving his hands and his head in tandem. “Well, now that I’ve said it, I kind of get that.” His arms flop forward onto the table, as if he is reaching out for Sherlock. “I promise, though, it’s not meant that way. I’m not expecting that you just—stopped. Or that you’ll even stop soon. Or ever, I don’t know. I barely know anything about your relationship with him. Really, I only know it’s so important because you won’t talk about it. But I,” he exhales, shaking his head, “I _feel_ so much. I’ve never really felt this about anyone before, and it’s overwhelming and consuming and terrifying, and I just want to make sure that I’m…not alone. So I thought I’d ask.”

Victor Trevor will never be a good liar; he bleeds sincerity when he talks. It’s one of the things that makes him so easy to read. Sherlock likes it; he almost always knows where he stands with Victor, and right now, Victor is telling the truth. It’s all there in his wide eyes, his furrowed brow. He’s not trying to extract a promise or make Sherlock feel guilty. He just wants to know.

Still.

“Did my birthday dinner really seem like the best time for this discussion?” Sherlock asks, taking another sip of water.

“In retrospect, no.”

Sherlock sighs. He’s not angry, per se; Victor isn’t trying to offend him, and he knows that. Still, after the way physical things had progressed so nicely earlier, he isn’t sure where this is coming from.

Or—oh. Maybe _that_ is where this is coming from. “What is it about my relationship with John that you feel is so mysterious?”

Victor tilts his head to the side. “What?”

“You said you don’t know much about my relationship with him. Are you trying to ask if we had sex?” He watches Victor visibly pale. Interesting. “We didn’t, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I—wasn’t. But, I mean. Well.” Victor clears his throat once, twice. “I…well, I had wondered, but no. No, that’s not what I was asking. I was asking about your, you know, emotions. But, um. Well, that’s a good thing to know, as well. We’re both…well, with girls, but never with—and not that you’d want to with _me_ , of course, but—”

“Emotions are dull.”

Victor goes quiet, and then says, “They’re important, Sherlock. How you feel is…important. To me.”

Sherlock gnaws at his lip absently. What does Victor want? Some—confession of love? Confirmation that Sherlock no longer adores John in the way he once did, that all of his feelings are strictly platonic? That he’s madly in love with Victor?

None of those things are true. His feelings for John are—muddled. They are changing. It’s impossible to pretend that they are what they once were, and that he feels as he once did, but that doesn’t mean that his emotions just evaporated. These things take time.

It makes it difficult, then, to determine his exact feelings for Victor. They’re definitely romantic and also increasingly sexual; he’s attracted to Victor, he _likes_ Victor. He doesn’t love him, but—well, who knows. Even he can’t predict the future, no matter how much he wish he could.

It would make crimes so much easier to solve.

Sherlock brushes a hand down his front, straightens himself. “I will tell you this: at this point, the only relationship I am interested in pursuing with John Watson is completely platonic.”

Victor’s mouth quirks in one corner. “Really?”

“Really. And also,” Sherlock does his best not to squirm uncomfortably even though he rather wants to. “I care. About you, I mean.”

“You do?” The smile fully blooms on Victor’s face. It’s a bit too wide and a little silly, but it makes Sherlock’s heart pump faster. “I’m so glad to hear you say that because—“

The waitress arrives at their table, carrying a tray topped with their plates. She sets down Victor’s dinner in front of him, followed by Sherlock’s. A bowl of rice goes between them. “Here you are. Anything else I can get you two?”

“No,” they say simultaneously. They grin at each other over the table. At seeing the shared look, their server excuses herself.

Beneath the table, Victor’s ankle knocks against his. It seems accidental, at first, but then it slowly, deliberately happens again.

“I’m sorry I almost ruined your birthday dinner,” Victor says. He’s still got the same grin on his face. “Both of us are bad at communcation, I think.”

“We’ll improve.”

Neither of them will look away; Victor’s staring at him like he has the answer to every question ever asked, and he can’t shift his eyes. There’s something strange and magnetic happening between them. They haven’t even touched their food.

Vivaldi starts playing, breaking the spell. They both jump back, look away as they try to follow the sound. It’s Sherlock’s ringtone. He frowns and fishes a hand deep into his pocket to retrieve his mobile. John’s name is onscreen.

He hits the ignore button, interrupting ‘Winter’ mid-phrase.

“Who was that?” Victor asks. He’s apparently taken the break in their staring contest to go ahead and start in on his food.

Sherlock hesitates, then stores his mobile away. “No one who can’t wait a while.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for posting so late in the day! I moved this weekend, and while I was trying to get this done PRIOR to the move, it didn't work out that way. Turns out, moving is a complete timesuck. 
> 
> My lovely beta is on vacation this week, so if you happen to see any errors or typos, please let me know! I read through it, but I'm terrible at catching my own mistakes and would therefore appreciate your help.
> 
> Also, I know I said this last chapter, but please, please stop asking if it is going to end with Viclock or Johnlock. I will not answer that question. Thanks!
> 
> Please let me know how you liked this chapter, either here or at my tumblr.


	19. Chapter 18

“So I’ll be coming in on the noon train. I was thinking that you could meet us at the station,” John says, his voice alight with enthusiasm. “You know, take the train in, as well. My parents will pick us up, and we can all go out for lunch, or something, and then you can spend the night at mine.”

Sherlock stretches, his body long across Victor’s couch. Victor is out for the day. Darah called the night before to complain she hadn’t seen him since they had all gone to see that terrible film. Victor, being Victor, instantly felt horribly guilty and invited her out, just the two of them. He hadn’t relented despite Sherlock’s sulking, although there’d been a nice snog, so all in all the strop hadn’t been entirely useless.

Still, Victor’s apartment is terribly boring when Victor is not in it. He’d called John as a distraction, thinking he’d leave him a particularly pathetic voicemail. To his surprise and delight, John had answered, and now they are making plans for John’s return in one week.

One week. Seven days. Something warms in Sherlock’s chest when he thinks about seeing John—actually _seeing_ him, not just hearing some voice on the line. He’ll be able to make deductions and see the ways in which John has really changed. Not that he’s entirely unaware, but there’s a difference from John telling him about training and physical work outs and new friends and being able to read the clues from John’s form himself.

He’s much more accurate, for one thing.

“Sherlock?” John prompts. Sherlock wonders how long he’s been quiet. “Are you—is it because I mentioned staying over? Because I’ll stay on the couch, so you don’t have to worry. Or, well, you don’t have to stay, if you don’t want to. I know that’s your first week of the new term, and I don’t want to interfere.”

He sounds so disappointed. It makes Sherlock feel strangely—glad. John still misses him, even after all these months. Of course, he immediately feels a bit bad for being so pleased with that. There are simply too many emotions.

“No, stop. It’s fine. I wasn’t thinking that at all. I was just…thinking.”

“Oh. You got lost in that stupidly large brain of yours?” John teases. “Well, what do you think, then? I know you have to go back on Sunday afternoon, but I just really want to spend some time with you.” There’s a pause. Why is there a pause? Is John getting embarrassed? This will all be so much easier when John is done with the army and back where he is supposed to be.

“I want that, too,” Sherlock says. His heart beats faster. Was that more of an admission than he intended? He clears his throat quickly. “I’ll meet you at the station around noon, then.”

John accepts the change in the direction of their conversation easily. He’s trying, too, it seems. He responds, “Sounds good. Is there a train that comes in around that time?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m sure there is, and even if there isn’t, I’ll just get Victor to drive me down. In fact, he’ll probably do that, anyway. His father lives in London, and he’s always looking for an excuse to go and see him.” In his head, Sherlock is already running logistics. He’ll ask Victor once he gets home, but Victor complains constantly about his guilt for avoiding his father. This will be perfect. “He can stay the weekend with his dad and then pick me up at yours and take us both back to Cambridge on Sunday evening.”

John hums out his response. “Well, if you’re sure he won’t mind, I suppose that works, too. You should check with him first, though. You don’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Oh, I’m allowed to be presumptuous with _Victor_ ,” Sherlock replies airily. His mind travels back to their earlier snog session on the couch. Victor had got delightfully handsy. Presumptuous, indeed.

Snorting, John laughs. “Oh? Have you seen him since the break started, then?”

Oh, right. Sherlock feels a weight fall on his chest as he debates the best way to handle this question. It’s not that he deliberately kept his being disowned from John. His life simply hasn’t changed that much because of it happening. If anything, not having to suffer his father’s expectations is a dramatic improvement.

And yes, there are downsides. The bank account Mycroft set up for him has enough money for necessities, but it’s not exactly the lifestyle to which he was previously accustomed. Also, knowing that he owes his brother for his continued enrolment at Cambridge chafes almost as much as the anticipation of Mycroft’s stupid, smug face when he inevitably calls in those favours.

Still: now he can do what he likes with his life without fear of recrimination. He can study chemistry, solve crimes, date men. It’s enough to make him regret an entire lifetime of cowardly doing as he was told. Disobedience turned out so well, in the end. 

With of that being said, however, Sherlock knows John, and John is not going to simply accept that he forgot to tell his best friend that he’d been disowned by his family.

“I’m actually staying at his house,” Sherlock says, trying to tread carefully.

There’s a long pause, and then: “What?”

Although his mind works over thirteen possible different endings for this conversation, not one of them is positive. It’s all Sherlock can do to hold back a groan. He sighs. “I may have accidentally forgot to mention that my father disinherited me a month ago.”

“ _What_?” John’s answer explodes through Sherlock’s mobile. He has to hold his phone away from his ear, wincing. “How do you just—I mean, what, that just slipped your mind? Are you still going to go back to school? How are you eating? Are you sleeping rough? You should have _told_ me, I could have helped you!”

John is being predictable. Sherlock hates that. He closes his eyes, suffering through the tirade with as much patience as he can. “It happened right after our…well, right after I had dinner with your parents. I think the reason I didn’t reach out to you at that time is fairly obvious.”

The only sound on the other end is John’s harsh breathing. “So it’s my fault I didn’t know?”

“Did I say that?” Sherlock throws back, even as he thinks, _well, yes, a little_. “I did not. I merely meant that it was not the most…accessible we’ve ever been to each other. And by the time we were again speaking regularly, I was no longer concerned, so it wasn’t something I thought to tell you.”

“You’re not concerned? How is that possible? How are you…” John’s voice trails off. “Mycroft, of course. And right under your dad’s nose, I’d bet. Am I right?”

“Indeed. My situation is not what it was, but it is not as dire as it could be." The silence hangs heavy between them, even through the mobile. "You're still angry with me."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock, of _course_ I'm angry! You kept something really serious from me!" 

Sherlock swallowed thickly. It probably wasn't the best time to mention Victor, then. That is a more recent development, but John is likely not going to react well when he finds out that Sherlock had not been immediately forthcoming about his new boyfriend.

Boyfriend? Well, yes. That's the most accurate term for Victor, at the moment. It's actually sort of...nice. To think the word, that is. He registers an impatient noise through the line and realizes this is not the most ideal time to ponder these things.

Perhaps he ought to say something. It's been a few weeks. Does he really want John to feel more out of the loop than he already does?

On the other hand, it's probably going to be a terrible conversation, and Sherlock does not want to have it. Maybe if he ignores everything, it will go away.

"I didn't do it on purpose," Sherlock whinges as his mind whirrs. To tell or not to tell? John needs to know before he comes back so that he isn't surprised by the information, but would another surprise on top of this one really be a good idea? 

This is why Sherlock always avoided having friends in the past. He only has two and is in over his head.

Well, that. And also no one liked him.

John sighs, and he sounds so weary that Sherlock nearly flinches. "I know you didn't. I sometimes wish I understood your brain better, you know? Like, you can tell me in detail about a billion kinds of tobacco ash, but you can't remember to tell your best friend that you got kicked out of your family a month ago."

"It didn't seem so dire. I had a place to stay, access to money. There were more pressing things to think about."

Like letting go of John. Like...Victor Trevor, who is nice and sweet and fit and possibly a rebound, Sherlock isn't sure. He hasn't done this enough to know what that would feel like. There was no one before John. It didn't occur to him that there could be someone after him.

He'd honestly thought that John was the only person he would ever care for, let alone love. Now, he isn't so sure, and he's not convinced that a further capacity for feeling ought to be considered a bad thing, by normal standards. Not that his standards for himself have ever been normal.

It's just all too confusing. He frowns and readjusts his head on the arm rest. He called John to be entertained, not to be frustrated.

"Well," John says begrudgingly, "at least you had someone there to watch out for you. That was nice of Victor, letting you stay with him." There's a long pause, and Sherlock isn't sure whathe wants John to say at the end of it. "You two have been spending a lot of time together this past month, then?"

The question isn't entirely innocent, Sherlock is sure of it. He fidgets on the couch and is suddenly glad that John isn't there and can't see how nervous he is. "Yes, we have."

"Is there...I mean, I don't want to sound crazy or jealous or anything, but," he huffs out a frustrated sigh, and Sherlock can't tell if he's annoyed with Sherlock or himself. "Is there something going on between the two of you?"

Now that John, wonderful, perceptive John, has asked the question, Sherlock is positive that he would have preferred to ignore the subject altogether. "How do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb, Sherlock, it doesn't suit you."

"Fine, then. Yes, there is."

The words leave him in a rush; he can't seem to hold them back, like they were waiting on the edge of his tongue, ready for their opportunity to rush forward and strike. Sherlock is instantly annoyed with himself for being so immediate, so forthcoming. He bites his lip and tries again in the face of John's continued silence.

"It just...happened. Recently."

John clears his throat. The noise is annoyingly vague. More than anything in the world, Sherlock wishes he could see John's face, read his body language. He wants to know what John is thinking, what he's really thinking, not just what he wants Sherlock to believe he's thinking. John is so open and obvious; it's difficult for him to lie to anyone. He's powerless against Sherlock.

"Well," John says, "are you happy?"

It's such an obvious question, and yet it throws Sherlock completely off guard. Is he happy with Victor? He's certainly happier than he would be without him, but more than that, is he just...happy?

Victor's curly hair and ridiculous smile and awkward fumbling come to mind, and Sherlock feels some small part of him glow in the face of these memories.

"I think I am," he replies, his voice sounding stronger than he expected.

"Then I am happy, too," John tells him. His tone is warm and, to Sherlock's ears, genuine. It's impossible to tell without actually seeing him first hand, but John seems to mean it.

It's not a perfect moment. There's inevitably something sad about it, in the recognition that they are starting to put what they had behind them. The bitter amongst the sweet. Because although that realisation stings, it gives way to a greater hope. They're okay. They're better than okay; they're best friends.

"I'm really glad you feel that way," Sherlock bursts out, unable to control himself.

John laughs quietly, and it's wonderful to hear. "Yeah, me too." For a moment, there is only the sound of him breathing, then he adds, "I'm sorry, but I need to get going. I'll text you later, and we can finish ironing out any details then, alright?"

"Sure," Sherlock says. He is so pleased that he would probably agree to anything John suggested. "I can't wait to see you next week."

There's a smile in John's voice when he replies, "I can't wait to see you, either."

They ring off right after, and Sherlock settles back down into the couch, feeling content. All that worrying for nothing! He should have known better than to doubt John's ability to persevere. He'd given his blessing for Sherlock to be with Victor without feeling guilty. Not a necessity, perhaps, but it still feels nice to have it.

In fact, Sherlock can't remember the last time he felt this good, with the exception of that night when he did cocaine. That had been fun, he muses. Perhaps Victor would be interested in doing that again.

Victor. Sherlock wants to do something to mark this moment. Despite the fact that it isn't, it feels like an important one. He checks his mobile, but there are no messages waiting for him. He expects Victor will be home soon, however, due to previous observation of his time with Darah, so Sherlock calls the Thai place around the corner (he thinks about his birthday there last week with a grin) and orders delivery. The girl on the phone recognizes his voice and gives him his meal for free, so he makes a mental note to do more favours for restaurant owners.

The food is there twenty minutes later, and Sherlock barely has time to grab plates before Victor strolls in the front door, whistling. His hair is windswept off his forehead, and his cheeks are tinged pink from the wind. It seems that he and Darah took a brisk walk through the winter cold to end their day together.

He looks very, very good.

Sherlock drops a plate on the counter with a loud _smack_ and ignores Victor's indignant "hey!" as he strides across the floor, closing the distance between them. Victor barely has time to register what is about to happen before Sherlock has him up against the door and is snogging him within an inch of his life.

He groans when Sherlock's tongue probes at his mouth and turns his head away, panting. "What's all this, then?"

Sherlock aligns their hips; the friction is _divine_. "I want you."

"Alright," Victor says as he dips down to mouth at Sherlock's neck. "But does it have to be against the door? It's bloody cold."

Teeth at is pulse point. It is difficult to think, and for some reason that isn't a bad thing. "Where do you have in mind?"

Victor goes still under his hands and then pulls back so that they can see each other eye to eye. "We could, um. Well. My bedroom?"

Sherlock presses his lips to Victor's, quick and hard. "Yes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mostly written on my tablet, so please let me know if there are any issues.
> 
> Thanks to sureaintmebabe for being so patient when looking over this chapter!
> 
> Please let me know what you think, here or at my tumblr!


	20. Chapter 19

Victor’s arm is heavy across his stomach, and Sherlock traces his fingertips up and down, travelling from wrist to elbow and back again. Curled into his side, Victor breathes against his neck, deep and slow. This is the way it’s been the past week, since Victor invited Sherlock into his bedroom. They mess around, enjoy mutual orgasms, and then Victor wraps himself around Sherlock like he’s trying to make them into one being.

It’s…not unpleasant.

The introduction of oral sex exactly one week prior seems to have changed something between them, tearing down barriers that Sherlock hadn’t even known were up. They sleep in the same bed, they’re learning each other’s bodies. Two nights ago, Sherlock found that when he sucks at the juncture of Victor’s neck and shoulder, the other man goes absolutely mad.

The blow jobs were—interesting, at first, but they’ve got better. He’d done it to John twice, in their short time together, and had managed to get him off both times with relative ease. Victor, however, is more sexually experienced than John, even if that experience was with women he only dated as a cover. Victor never said anything, of course, but Sherlock isn’t an idiot, and he knows that after the first night, Victor was a little disappointed in Sherlock’s lack of technique. Not that Victor was anything to brag about, either; he was just as inexperienced with giving head, after all. A few days and several experiments later, however, they’re both enjoying themselves much more.

There’s something about waking up next to another person, Sherlock thinks. He’s never really had the opportunity to observe someone as they sleep, as they begin to wake, as they open their eyes and blink at the daylight and stretch. He likes that he can picture Victor’s face in all three of these separate moments. Even now, as he pets Victor’s arm, he doesn’t have to look to his left to be able to imagine the look on the other man’s face.

Victor, for all his typical awkward posturing and bashfulness, has handled the transition to deeper intimacy with uncharacteristic ease. He fits himself against Sherlock like he’s been doing it for years, rather than days.

They really ought to get up. Neither of them have time for a lie-in this morning. John’s train arrives in London in just a few hours, and they both have to shower and dress and drive to the station. He also needs to pack; the realisation paints a frown across his face. The new term starts on Monday.

He sighs. What he wants is one more minute to just lie here, enjoying the warmth of Victor’s skin against his. Reality, however, does not tend that way.

He squeezes Victor’s wrist. “Victor, get up.”

There’s a groan against his neck. It’s a sleepy one, not a sexy one, but it makes Sherlock’s thoughts head down that path, anyway. He mentally chastises himself. They don’t have time for that.

“Don’t wanna,” Victor mumbles into his neck, pressing a sloppy kiss against it. “Sleep more.”

“We need to get ready. You have to get me back to my hall so I can drop off my things before we go to London.” He tries valiantly to ignore the way that Victor is still kissing his neck, barely holding back a whine when he feels a tongue against his carotid artery. “We don’t have time…”

Victor laughs and moves so that he is propped up on his elbow, looking down at Sherlock. He’s still half-asleep, eyes heavy and movements slow. He grins. “Isn’t _this_ a change from the usual. I’m typically the one telling you to focus, not the other way around.” He bends down and presses a kiss against Sherlock’s mouth. He lingers there, not deepening the kiss, just his lips against Sherlock’s, undemanding and sweet.

 _Damn him_ , Sherlock thinks as he surges upward, kissing Victor passionately. He knows exactly how to provoke Sherlock into reacting, has played Sherlock the way Sherlock plays his violin. If he hadn’t done it so masterfully, Sherlock would be annoyed at having been manipulated.

“We need to,” Sherlock pants and then folds himself into Victor again. “Shower. And pack my things.”

Victor nods, but instead of disengaging, his hands wander down Sherlock’s back, tentatively cupping the curve of Sherlock’s arse. He brings their pelvises together gently, and they groan into each other’s mouth.

“We could shower together,” Victor murmurs. He says it so quietly and confidently, so unlike his usual bumbling self, that for a moment Sherlock thinks he must have imagined it.

But no. Victor is staring down at him, eyes growing increasingly wide with each second that Sherlock doesn’t answer. Panic setting in. Sherlock sits up, sighs. “If we do that, then we will definitely be late.”

Victor flings an arm out into the empty space Sherlock left behind. He pouts, and Sherlock hates that he thinks the expression is adorable. He will never tell Victor that; it’s bad enough that he thinks it at all. Sentiment is baffling, even now.

“Who cares if we’re late?” Victor whines.

“I do. John is coming back, and I want to see him right away.”

The pout turns to a scowl. In the past week, each time Sherlock has mentioned John, he’s noticed that Victor becomes increasingly dour. He’s jealous and not at all good at hiding it. It’s to be expected, Sherlock supposes. Sure, Victor had been surprisingly calm and understanding about John since they had started their relationship; the moment in the restaurant, where he assured Sherlock that he didn’t expect him to instantly stop caring for John comes to mind. He’d been sincere, then, and he still meant it now, Sherlock was sure. But John had been a distance idea, then. He had been someone distant and busy, whom Victor would not know if he passed on the street.

Now, however, he is a person. He is flesh and blood and coming to visit, and Sherlock is going to stay over at his house, and yes, of course Victor is jealous.

Doesn’t make it any less bloody annoying, however.

“Stop making that face,” Sherlock says, slipping out of Victor’s bed. He pads across the room to the closet, where he hung up some of his shirts a few days ago. Victor had seemed happy about it at the time. Now, Sherlock can feel the weight of his stare on the back of his head. “I haven’t seen him in months, and the things you’re worrying about are preposterous.”

“They aren’t. I worry you still have feelings for him, and I know you do, and I don’t blame you for them, I really don’t, but that doesn’t mean I can just…shut off what I’m feeling. I care too much.” Victor covers his face with the crook of his elbow. “I’ve been driving you mad all week by being insecure, and I knew it, but I couldn’t _stop_. I tried, I promise.”

Part of Sherlock wants to snap at Victor to try harder because John doesn’t want him, anyway, so he really has nothing to worry about. At the last second, he realises that would be a bit not good, so he bites his tongue. He knows he ought to say something comforting instead, but he can’t find any words that would help. Platitudes are not his area.

Victor peeks at him out from under his arm. There must be something in his expression that inspires Victor’s pity. Frustration falls away from his face, leaving something sweetly unhappy behind, and he crawls out of bed. He comes up behind Sherlock, wraps his arms around him, and tucks his chin over Sherlock’s shoulder. Another kiss on his neck.

“I’ll keep trying,” Victor murmurs. Sherlock hates this display almost as much as the jealousy; it dulls his justified annoyance and sharpens his guilt.

Is Victor just someone who is convenient? Is he taking some perfectly nice young man and using him to assuage his loneliness? If John were at uni rather than in the army, would things be different?

He turns in Victor’s arms and kisses him rather than ponder the answer.

\--

The ride to the train station in London is mostly silent. Victor asks him once if the heating is at the right temperature, and then which radio station he would prefer to listen to, but that is the extent of their conversation. Sherlock can tell that Victor is still upset—about John, about their disagreement? Who knows—but chooses to ignore it. He won’t solve anything by dwelling on something as irrational as emotional attachments.

It’s much more exciting to remember that he is only a few minutes away from John. _John_. It’s difficult to pin a name to the excitement that buds in his chest when he considers seeing John again. It’s not the kind of romantic anticipation he used to feel; things have changed, and there’s no use denying it. But John will be real and solid and right before him, and Sherlock will be able to look at him, not through the lens of a camera over a grainy internet connection, but with his own two eyes.

He bites back a grin, just in case Victor is looking. No need to stir up more trouble than they’ve already had.

The train station comes into view, and Victor pulls into the car park, shutting off his car. He turns to face Sherlock on his left, hesitantly opening his mouth before seemingly resolving himself to something. Sherlock starts to ask him what the matter is, when Victor leans forward, grabs the back of Sherlock’s head, and brings him in for a bruising kiss.

It is—well, Sherlock registers no complaints. Victor moves his mouth against Sherlock’s deftly, with just the barest hint of tongue. He twists one of the curls at the back of Sherlock’s head, a gentle twirl around his finger, and Sherlock whimpers against him.

Victor pulls away. His breath comes out in pants against Sherlock’s mouth. “You’ll be late if you don’t leave now.”

“Bastard,” Sherlock teases, leaning across the car to kiss Victor one more time, hard and quick. “You have nothing to be worried about.”

Well, he probably doesn’t. Statistically, Victor can rest assured that he has very little to worry about. But nothing sounds better, and it seems to reassure Victor, who is smiling as he pulls away.

“I’m going to ravage you if you don’t get out of here,” he says. He pulls away and motions toward the train station. “Pretty sure your friend wouldn’t appreciate having to wait for us to finish.”

Sherlock laughs. Things feel better, like they did this morning when he woke up and Victor was still asleep, warm and pliant around him. Without thinking, he reaches out and brushes a thumb across Victor’s cheek. It seems like such a pointlessly sentimental gesture, but it warms Sherlock from the inside.

“I’ll see you tomorrow evening,” he says. He hesitates, then adds, “I’ll miss you.”

It’ll only be a day and a half, but Victor likes that sort of reassurance, he knows. And it does the trick, anyway: Victor’s face practically splits in half from the strength of his smile. His turns his head to brush his lips against Sherlock’s thumb and whispers, “I’ll miss you, too.”

Sherlock goes out of the car, picking up at the bag at his feet and slinging it over his shoulder. It’s everything he needs to stay overnight at John’s. Behind him, there’s the sound of a train whistle, the clash of metal on metal as the cars chug into the station. A knot of anticipation ties in his stomach, and he lifts a hand to Victor before making his way toward the station, toward John.

John. He deliberately keeps his pace steady, afraid that he’ll break out into a run if he isn’t careful with himself. Based on the timing, the train that just pulled in is John’s. John is probably stepping out of his car, a bag over his arm. Is he wearing his uniform? Civilian clothes? How has changed, and how is he the same?

Sherlock takes the stairs at a jog, then forces himself to slow back down as he walks inside the front door to the station. He wipes his palms against the front of his trousers, surprised to find them damp with nervous sweat. Taking a deep breath, he surveys the people in front of him—a woman who has left her abusive husband and is going back to live with her parents, a man who has a business meeting in London today for which he is very nervous, and—

There he is.

He’s dressed casually, dark jeans and a black shirt. The clothes are a more recent acquisition, as neither of the washes have yet faded. Did he buy them for his visit home? No, John’s not vain like that. More likely he got them because he’d gained enough definition that his other clothes no longer fit properly.

His hair is shorn short, and he stands with his back totally straight. Even from across the room, Sherlock can see that he is confident, controlled. He looks—good.

Sherlock swallows the emotions rising up his throat. He knows he should say something, try to grab John’s attention, but no words will come out. He’s at a loss, completely overwhelmed, and then John turns and finds him in the crowd.

His smile is the same as it always was.

There’s no conscious moment when he starts to move toward John; it just happens. His feet take him that direction without him ever deciding that’s where he ought to go. John seems to have much the same idea, however, and they walk quickly toward each other, picking up their pace as they go until they collide in the middle of the station.

John’s hands on his back, John’s face pressed into his shoulder, John’s smell in his nose, John’s voice in his ears, saying, “I thought we agreed that you weren’t allowed to get any taller.”

Sherlock pulls away and takes a step back, hands dropping to his sides. “Well, I figured that one of us had to, and it was never going to be you.”

“Tosser,” John laughs, punching him lightly in the shoulder. He dives back in for another hug, slapping Sherlock on the back. “God, it’s good to see you. Did you find my parents yet?”

That’s right, the Watsons should be here. In all the excitement, Sherlock forgot to keep an eye out for them. It’s strange, he had expected them to be waiting on the platform. A quick survey of the area doesn’t reveal any of John’s family, however. Sherlock frowns. “Traffic, maybe?”

John nods, but he shifts his mobile out of his pocket. “Probably. I’ll text them.” As he thumbs out his message, he continues, “So, lunch?”

Sherlock lets out a mock sigh. “If we must.”

“Oh, we must. Greg and Molly were talking about meeting up for dinner or something, too. I told them I would check with you and let them know.”

Greg and Molly. Sherlock’s barely thought about either of them since John left, as that is when he stopped seeing them. They were always John’s friends, not his. They’re nice enough, for normal people, but Sherlock has no interest in seeing them. All he wants is John.

“You’re grimacing,” John says, a smile at the corner of his mouth. “No problem. I only have you for a weekend, right? And they’re both in school in London, so I can grab them during the week. I’d rather it just be us tonight, anyway.”

Something twists inside Sherlock at that, and he feels his lungs constrict quickly. John meant nothing by it; he wants to spend the evening with his best friend, and there’s nothing strange about that. Victor’s insecurities have gotten to Sherlock’s head, and that is all.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Did your mother text you back?”

“No, and Dad didn’t either.” John frowns. “Weird. Well, maybe they have the radio up or something, didn’t hear the alert noise. Come on, let’s find somewhere to sit and wait for them to get back to us.”

John takes off toward an empty seat, and Sherlock follows behind, depositing himself next to John on the bench. There’s a respectable distance between them, and Sherlock looks at it, tries to figure out how he feels about it. Is this a good thing? Does he wish he could scoot closer, so that they were pressed thigh-to-thigh? Is he glad that they aren’t?

There’s no easy answer, but sitting this far from John isn’t painful, it just _is_ , and Sherlock decides that he can live with that.

“You’re happy,” Sherlock says. He rests his back against the wood of the bench, and the top digs into his spine uncomfortably. “You are glad you did this.”

John grins. There’s something private about it, like his contentment is a secret he’s kept from everyone. “I am. I mean, yeah.” He looks at the floor, and then up at Sherlock. “It’s good for me, I think.”

Some undeniably bitter thoughts twist about inside of Sherlock’s brain, but for the first time, they are outweighed by a sense of some other foreign, positive feeling. Pride, maybe. John stands taller, now. He’s becoming the sort of man who can command a room. Sherlock always knew he was capable, beneath his good-natured compliance. Watching him grow is rewarding, in its own way.

And the muscles—well, he can’t help but notice them. He has functioning eyes, after all. Victor will never knew, anyway.

“I’m glad,” Sherlock says, turning to look at the door. That’s all he says, all he can manage, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is mostly true.

The smile John gives him shows that he perfectly understands what Sherlock means. How can he still know Sherlock that well, after so many months apart?

It is only there briefly, however, as he turns back to his mobile. “Still no word from my parents. That’s so unlike them. My mum has texted me four hundred times a day for the past week.” He sighs at the screen. “I’m going to call them.”

Sherlock watches John peck through his contacts until he comes to his mother’s mobile number. He rings her, but it goes to her voicemail. He tries the same with his dad, and begins to leave a voicemail, but partway through the message his face changes and he pulls the phone away to connect a different call.

“ _There_ you are! I was beginning to think you three forgot all—“ John cuts off abruptly. He suddenly looks pale in the overhead fluorescent light of the station. “Oh, God. No, don’t worry about it. We’re on our way. What—we’ll take a cab, don’t be ridiculous. She’ll be okay? All right. See you soon.”

Sherlock leans closer. “Harry or your mother?”

“Harry,” John replies, rubbing a hand over his brow. “She was at a friend’s house this morning and apparently fell out of a tree. She’s broken her arm and they think she fractured a rib. My parents were so panicked they didn’t notice the time.”

“I’ll go hail a cab,” Sherlock says as he stands.

“No, Sherlock, I can’t—“

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m much better at hailing cabs than you.”

John glares, but it’s obvious he doesn’t mean it. He touches his short hair unconsciously, as if he still expects there to be enough length there to tug as he thinks. “That’s not what I mean. I don’t have any cash. I was starving on the train, and I spent the last of what I had on one of those horrible sandwiches they sell.”

“Ham on rye,” Sherlock supplies, smirking a bit when John sends him an incredulous look. “I’ll explain how I knew later. Don’t worry yourself about the cab, I’ll pay for it.”

With a dramatic flair of his coat, Sherlock turns and heads toward the front door, his bag still slung over his shoulder. He completely ignores John’s swearing as he quickly takes up his own things and runs after him. John grabs his elbow, dragging him to a stop. “I can’t let you do that.”

“Sure you can. If it helps, consider it a welcome home present. Although, as presents go, it’s rather terrible.”

“No, I mean,” John looks left and right and then drops his voice. “I don’t want to make you pay for things, due to your, you know, situation.”

John, still trying to chivalrously spare Sherlock the embarrassment of being cut off. It’s impossible to tarnish John Watson’s good streak, Sherlock thinks. “I have more than enough to get us to St. Barts.”

“How did you know where she—you know what, now is not the time. I’ll call my parents back and they can pay for the cab once we get there, maybe.”

“Yes, because what they want to do is worry about our cab fare while Harry’s getting x-rays,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. This is the easiest solution by far.”

John sets his jaw, stubborn and unyielding. The army’s been wonderful for him, Sherlock muses. If only it hadn’t indulged those particular qualities in him. “I am not letting you pay for our ride. I’m just not. We’ll figure something else out.”

Sherlock sighs. If only he or John had a car, this would all be much easier.

The thought makes him pause.

“I know a way we could get there for free,” he says, already unlocking his mobile and searching through his recently called list.

“I’m listening,” John says. He sounds suspicious, but intrigued.

“Victor dropped me off just as you were arriving. He can’t be more than ten minutes away. I’m sure he would drive us, if I asked.”

It seems like such a simple, obvious solution, which is why he is surprised when he notices that John looks as though he swallowed a lemon. As John’s face unpinches itself, he says, “I don’t know, Sherlock, I wouldn’t want to impose…”

“I impose on him all the time. It’s fine.”

“Right. Not sure that actually makes it fine, you know.”

Sherlock has already hit Victor’s number and is holding his mobile to his ear. “It’s still ringing. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“But—fine. Fine, if he’s willing, I’d be very grateful,” John says. He even manages to look sincere, which is better than Sherlock had hoped for.

Victor picks up on the fourth ring. “Did he miss his train?”

The concern in his voice makes Sherlock smile to himself. It’s good that they’ll meet, he decides. Awkward, maybe, but that’s unavoidable and, hopefully, temporary. He says, “How far away are you? John’s sister Harry took a fall and is in hospital, so we need you to take us to Barts.” John pinches him hard on the upper arm, and Sherlock flinches and glares before adding, “John says I ought to say ‘please.’”

It’s strange, to be on the phone with Victor and standing next to John, to hear Victor’s laughter in his ear for a change. “Well, fine, but only because John was polite. Give me a minute to flip round, and then I’ll start heading back in your direction.”

Before John can pinch him again, Sherlock says, “Thank you,” and hangs up.

“He’ll be here in approximately twelve and a half minutes.”

John smiles, but there’s something strange about it. Before Sherlock can analyse it and deduce what it was, John is headed toward the front doors of the station, calling out, “Sounds good. Come on, let’s wait outside!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I planned the next few chapters out in detail the other day--lots of John and Sherlock time. I don't know about the y'all, but I, for one, am not ready. Which is a little worrisome, what with me being the one expected to write it.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! Let me know what you thought, here or at my tumblr.


	21. Chapter 20

Victor’s car pulls up in front of the train station again exactly twelve and a half minutes later, as predicted. Sherlock stands as he notices it slowing to a halt in front of the steps where he and John have been sitting. They haven’t said much since coming outside, but it hasn’t been awkward, like Sherlock had feared it would be. He’s always liked that in a world full of people who won’t shut up, John is comfortable sitting in silence.

He nods in the direction of the car and John gets to his feet, his bag slung over one of his shoulders. The pair of them start to walk down the steps when Victor’s four way lights begin to blink, and the man himself tumbles out of his car, barely finding his feet.

“Oh, er,” Victor says, tripping over his words much as he did his shoes. He holds out a hand to John as he rushes to meet them on the steps. “Hello! I’m Victor Trevor. And you must be—“ 

“John Watson,” John cuts in, shaking Victor’s hand. They are both of them hesitant, but they smile. It is about as smooth an introduction as Sherlock could have hoped for, and realizing that, he is keen to cut it short before it suddenly takes a turn for the worse.

He walks between their joined hands, cutting each of them loose, and calls out over his shoulder, “Enough pleasantries! We’re wasting time!”

As he makes his way to the passenger’s side of the car and slips into the back seat, Sherlock notices them exchange a look that is clearly some sort of pointed commentary on Sherlock’s lack of social graces. He slams the door closed behind him and crosses his arms, readying himself for a sulk. He did not introduce the pair of them so they could commiserate on the ordeals that came along with being Sherlock Holmes’s friend.

Or more than friend. Whatever.

John climbs into the other side of the back seat, and Victor gets back into the front, starting up his car. His eyes seek out Sherlock’s in the rear view mirror. “What are you doing back there?”

“I wanted to sit next to John,” he replies. He doesn’t miss the way Victor’s brow furrows upon hearing that, but he also doesn’t feel like addressing Victor’s insecurities, so he decides to ignore it.

Victor pulls away from the curb and heads back out onto the street. As he drives, he says, “So, John. How long are you home for?”

“Until Wednesday. I only have a few days, unfortunately. Still, it’ll be nice to see my family and friends.” John’s eyes shift left to Sherlock and then go forward again. He fidgets, clasping and unclasping his hands. “Thanks for giving us a ride, by the way. My sister is a magnet for trouble.”

“It’s no problem. I wasn’t very eager to get to the portion of my evening where my father tells me how much I need to start concentrating on my schoolwork or I’ll never amount to anything.” Victor’s tone is dry, and John laughs. The sound is forced, but they’re trying, and even if their attempts at conversation are so awkward that Sherlock wishes Victor would do them all a favour and drive straight into the Thames, he knows that he ought to appreciate the effort.

John asks, “What are you studying?” and Sherlock does his best not to groan at the small talk he has inadvertently created. He is not entirely successful, and both of the other boys glare at him out of the corners of their eyes.

“What?” He says, petulant. “You know how I feel about idle conversation.”

John swats at his thigh, but he snatches his hand back quickly, too quickly, as if the contact burned him. He tries to cover the motion with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. “Two of the people in this car are actually polite. I’m not going to name names, but Sherlock, you are neither of them.”

“That doesn’t even make _sense_. You said you weren’t going to name names, and then—” Sherlock starts to argue, only to be cut off by a sharp right turn.

Victor clears his throat, laughs nervously. “Sorry about that. Trying to make the light. We’re nearly there.”

Sherlock mutters a _’thank God’_ under his breath, steadfastly ignoring any glares that he receives because of that. Up front, Victor turns on the radio to fill the space where none of them say the things they are thinking.

\--

“Dad is in the waiting room,” John says, after they’ve parked in the visitor’s car park. “They took her to A&E. Mum went back with her to get the x-rays and cast, and he volunteered to wait for us.”

Victor nervously taps the steering wheel and looks over his shoulder. It’s impossible not to note the tension in his face, the worry. It stirs something in Sherlock; not derision or annoyance, like he would have expected. Something softer—pity, maybe? He’s never been very good at examining his own emotions. As much as Victor’s insecurity grates at him, it’s hard to be frustrated by it now, when Victor is meeting John for the first time.

He puts on a brave face. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Sherlock. Nice to meet you, John.”

Before John can reply, Sherlock cuts him off. “Walk us inside. I’ll say goodbye to you there.”

A crease forms between Victor’s brows. “But—I mean, won’t that be—“

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, not bothering to wait for a fully formed answer. “Come on, then.”

He vaults out of the car, slamming the door behind him and heading toward the entrance without even looking over his shoulder. A moment later there’s the sound of scrambling and then two car doors opening and closing, and he smirks to himself. He slows his stride—not in any way that would be noticeable to the two men trying to catch up, but just enough so that they don’t have to jog. Their feet beat in different patterns against the asphalt until the three of them are standing side to side to side, with Sherlock in the middle.

The doors open for them, and they step inside. Sherlock is immediately overwhelmed by the smell of antiseptic, and he wrinkles his nose. He’s never liked hospitals, what with the people coughing into their sleeves and trying to keep a brave face, and the way the staff tries to cover up the stench of death with bleach and chemicals. Without thinking, he moves in slightly closer to Victor’s side.

Mr. Watson sits in a chair just inside the waiting room, pale and obviously flustered. His hair sticks up in clumps from where he has worried in repeatedly. When he notices the three of them enter, he stands up so quickly that his chair rocks backward and then abruptly forward.

“John!” He crosses to him in two big steps and wraps John up in a hug, tucking his face down into his son’s hair. Sherlock takes a step back, as if to give them a moment, but Mr. Watson raises his head and gives him a smile. “And hello to you, too.”

Sherlock swallows, feeling suddenly out of place. “Hi, Mr. Watson.”

“Why don’t let you two have a minute alone?” Victor says, grabbing Sherlock by the elbow and dragging him a step back.

“Yeah, thanks.” John’s voice comes out muffled from where he’s still hugging his father tightly.

They turn and walk back toward the entrance, hovering just inside the doors. Victor lets go of Sherlock’s arm and leans against the wall. He lets out a deep breath. “Sorry, it just looked like they needed some time.”

“It’s fine. I’m glad you were here. I would have stood there and stared, not sure what to do,” Sherlock says.

Victor’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Well, I’m good for something, then.”

It seems his vow to work on his jealousy this morning has not yet kicked in, Sherlock notes, but then, it _has_ only been since this morning. There is probably some sort of trial period, or something. Instead of chastising him, Sherlock reaches for Victor’s hand and tangles their fingers. He loves that he can note the exact second that Victor remembers his promise and feels guilty for it.

He gives Sherlock’s fingers a squeeze. “Sorry. I’m being a berk. I didn’t even make it more than a few hours, did I? Although, to be fair, I gave you and your ex-boyfriend a ride to hospital, so I would like to think that—“

Sherlock decides he is not interested in anything else Victor has to say. It’s enough that he’s trying, even though he’s still worried and jealous and insecure. Sherlock still has doubts, as well, but as distracting at they are, he can’t help but lean forward and close the distance between them.

Victor lets out an ‘oomph’ as Sherlock’s mouth collides with his, but he catches on quickly. He traces Sherlock’s bottom lip with his tongue, and despite the fact that it is totally inappropriate (or perhaps _because_ it is totally inappropriate), Sherlock opens his mouth and kisses back deeply. They seem to move in sync, taking steps close to each other, hands reaching around necks and waists and—

Someone pointedly clears their throat behind them. Sherlock feels his stomach drop a bit as they break apart. Victor’s eyes are wide as he gazes of Sherlock’s shoulder, but that’s an unnecessary clue. Sherlock knew who it was the moment John made a sound.

“Right,” says Sherlock, “pick me up tomorrow, then?”

Victor blinks rapidly, something of an apology in his expression. “Right. Sure. Uh, yes. Tomorrow.” He takes a step back and shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly awkward. “Call me when you’re ready. Nice to meet you, John. See you, William.”

He turns and heads out the doors. Sherlock watches him walk away for a moment, and then turns back to John. “How is Har—“

The words die in his throat when he notices John’s expression. He is red-faced, and his jaw is set; he looks like he is somewhere between angry and tired. John shifts his gaze toward the floor. “She’s fine. They had to set her arm, so she’s in some pain. They’re giving her the strongest stuff they can that won’t make her puke.”

He isn’t okay. It’s apparent in every cell of his body, and Sherlock is dumbfounded, confused. It’s been months, now, and John has given every appearance of being okay. He seemed to accept everything well enough when they spoke about it on the phone. He exchanged pleasantries with Victor, for God’s sake! And yet John isn’t okay. Why isn’t John okay? “John?”

“Leave it, okay? Let’s just—“

“No.”

John goes stiff around the shoulders; it’s a sign he’s preparing himself to be stubborn, which is a nuisance, but Sherlock resolves not to let this go. John shakes his head. “This isn’t exactly the time or place.”

“I don’t care. We’re going to talk about it now.” He closes the gap between them. “Our friendship first, right? That before anything? Do you agree?” John’s head snaps up and he nods, slowly, carefully. Sherlock sucks in a deep breath and then lets it out. “Well, then. Talk.”

John shrugs, scuffs the toe of his sneaker against the floor. “It’s not a big deal. Not the way you’re thinking.”

“I’m thinking that you looked upset and jealous and sad, and that that is a big deal.”

“I just—I thought I was alright, you know, when you told me about you and Victor last week. I expected to feel crushed, or something, you know? But I didn’t. I just felt—well, a bit sad, I’ll admit, but mostly fine.” John rubs at the back of his neck. “I just didn’t expect to see that, I guess. And I’m…”

He breaks off, unable to find the words. A thousand different possible answers present themselves, but Sherlock isn’t good with emotions, and he knows better than to theorize before hearing all the facts. Instead, he prompts, “You are…?”

“It just hurt more than I thought it would, is all. It’s one thing to hear that you’re seeing someone, and another to see you with his tongue down your throat.” He pauses, and then adds, “When we’re here to see my sister, by the way. Poor form, Sherlock.”

It’s not his place to tell Victor’s secrets, but in this case, Sherlock thinks it might help. “I was trying to reassure him. He’s been madly jealous of you all week.”

John’s eyebrows rise toward his hairline. “Has he?”

“Oh, God, yes. It was so annoying.”

John laughs. The sound is still sadder than Sherlock would like to hear. “I’m fine. I am, I promise. I just thought that I would have more time, you know? Longer than a week to get used to the idea of you just…being with someone else. Even if we can’t be that, and we’re both moving on, there’s still some,” he mulls over the words and chooses them carefully, “lingering emotions. Right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, softly. “Of course there are.”

“And the only thing that will cure those is time, which we have plenty of, so let’s not worry about this anymore, okay? I’m fine, I promise I am.”

Sherlock studies John’s face carefully. It is open and earnest. There are no lies hiding in the corner of John’s mouth or in his eyes. He is being perfectly sincere. The break up was difficult for both of them, and what was there is still there, in some small part. It feels good to admit it, Sherlock thinks; it feels even better to know that he isn’t alone.

Although he isn’t entirely sure he needs to give one, the sentiment feels right, so Sherlock says, “I’m sorry.”

John smiles at him. The corners of his eyes crinkle. “You don’t need to be. You didn’t do anything wrong. Or, well, I guess snogging in a hospital is a bit not good, but you hardly need to apologize to me for that.”

Sherlock shoves at him, and they both laugh, and it feels just as wonderful as it always did. For one blissful moment, Sherlock’s mind is full of nothing but John, John, _John_.

“John?” Mr. Watson appears around the corner. “Sherlock? Harry’s got her cast on, and we’re going home now. What happened to your friend, Sherlock?”

“Victor was just giving us a ride. He’s gone to meet his father. How is Harry?”

Mr. Watson smiles, tired but relieved. “Very, very loopy. I have a feeling we’re going to get some excellent blackmail material tonight that will be used to manipulate her during her teenage years.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, but John elbows him in the side before he can get another word out and warns, “Don’t encourage him.”

The two of them share a smile. They head down the corridor side by side. When they reach Mr. Watson, he clasps a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and follows it up with a slap on the back. “It’s good to see you. Sorry this isn’t exactly the fun weekend you two had planned. We’ll order pizza when we get back to the house and let you guys take over the telly so you can play Mario Kart or whatever. Sound good?”

John nods and starts to speak, but is cut off when his mum and Harry round the corner. His mother is haggard, her clothes a disarray and her hair a mess, and Harry is no better. She looks as though she fell directly into a mud puddle, a brown splotch caked down the front of her jumper in all the places except for the area where she landed on her arm. The cast on her arm is neon green.

Mrs. Watson gets teary when she sees John, but she doesn’t rush forward. Harry takes an unsteady step, and the reason why is suddenly apparent. John closes the gap instead, enveloping his mother in a hug, and then squatting down to inspect Harry’s cast. He pretends to shield his eyes from the garish colour.

“Did you choose this one so that we will never be able to lose you in a crowd?” He asks, attempting cheeriness.

Harry looks too bleary-eyed to understand. “They gave me medicine. I feel funny.”

“I bet you do.”

“Are you and Sherlock real?” She looks back and forth between them, suspicious. “Is this an awake dream?”

Sherlock clears his throat. “I think the word you’re looking for is ‘hallucination.’”

“He just used a word I don’t understand,” Harry says as she turns and buries herself into her mother’s side. “He must be real, then.”

John laughs, and then reaches out, grabbing his sister under her knees and around her back. He sweeps her up and heads toward the door. “I don’t trust you to walk without accidentally falling over and dying.”

“You’re a jerk, so you must be real, too,” she mumbles, sleepy from the medicine. She presses her face into John’s chest, and he smiles down at her, affectionate.

“Right. I’ll carry her to the car. We ready, then?”

His parents nod and start to make their way out of the building. Sherlock and John trail behind them, Harry dozing against John’s chest and drooling on his shirt.

“By the way, what did Victor mean?” John asks, apropos to nothing.

“What are you talking about? Despite what you may think, I am not, in fact, psychic.” 

John sticks out his tongue and hoists his sister up a little higher in his arms. “God, she’s heavy. When did that happen? Anyway, I meant with the whole William thing. Is that like a,” he grimaces against the words, “pet name, or something?”

Sherlock frowns. “What? No. That’s just my name.”

John stops mid-step, forcing Sherlock to do the same. Ahead of them, the Watsons walk on, completely unaware of what’s happening behind them. John blinks, staring at him over Harry’s head. “Your first name is—“

“William. William Sherlock Scott Holmes.” Sherlock shrugs. “I’m not fond of my first name, and no one calls me by it.”

“Victor does,” John points out. He wrinkles his nose and say the name again, as if testing it out on his tongue. “ _William_.”

“It’s really nothing.”

“John? Sherlock?” Mrs. Watson turns, noticing that they’ve fallen far behind. Both of John’s parents are standing by the car. “Hurry up, you two!”

They pick up speed, heading toward the car. John shifts Harry in his arms again. “I can’t believe I didn’t know that.”

Was he supposed to tell John, Sherlock wonders? He has never gone by the name. It never even occurred to him to tell anyone before Victor had threatened him with some too-adorable nickname. He bites his lip as they pick up speed. “It’s not important, really.”

There’s a split second of conflict on John’s face, and then resolve. He nods. “Alright, then. If you say so.”

They reach the car. John deposits Harry in one seat and then slides into the middle to sit between her and Sherlock. On the way home, Sherlock does not think about how their thighs brush every time Mr. Watson turns a corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been in a really pissy mood lately, and I don't want any of you to think that I'm deliberately being a jerk. If I complain about this on my tumblr, I promise I'm not looking for sympathy. I'm just ranting and raving and complaining. I'm sorry if I've been acting like the equivalent of the Harry Potter Puppet Pal. Angst angst angst.
> 
> I'm struggling with motivation right now. I think it's due, in part, to having moved three weeks ago. My new place is wonderful in all ways except that it lacks a really good writing space. I'm also no longer near any sort of coffee shop except Starbucks, which is very crowded and distracting. I've yet to establish a new routine, and because of that, I'm having trouble writing at all. I didn't realize how important my previous routine was to my productivity.
> 
> Apologies for the late posting. It was rough, y'all.
> 
> Un-beat'd, since my beta went to sleep hours ago like a normal person, so please let me know if you notice any errors. It's very much appreciated.
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone.


	22. Chapter 21

“Last slice is yours, if you want it,” John says, pushing the pizza box toward Sherlock. 

Sherlock groans and rubs at his stomach. “God no.”

“Don’t mind if I do, then.” John happily fishes out the slice and then inhales it, hardly stopping to chew. He catches Sherlock gaping at him and shrugs sheepishly. He swallows his bite. “Well, I work out a lot now. I’m always hungry.”

“I don’t know whether or not I’m impressed or horrified.” He barely evades the throw pillow John hurls at his head. “Your aim has improved.”

John grins. “I’ve got quite good with a gun.”

That piece of knowledge is…surprisingly attractive. Sherlock clears his throat and picks up the controller he’d discarded to his right at the end of the last round of Mario Kart. “Next level?”

“Hell no,” John says, leaning back into the couch. He closes his eyes. “I’m way too tired.”

“You’re only saying that because the upcoming round is Rainbow Road.”

“That, too.”

Picking up the remote, John clicks off the telly. The game system continues to whirr, but they both ignore it. The house is quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Watson went to bed sometime after Mario Kart started, and Harry dropped off hours ago. The pain medication made her loopy and tired, and she’d barely made it through dinner.

He hopes she feels better tomorrow so that he could actually see her. It should have been awkward, to spend an evening with the Watsons again, but it hasn’t been. It’s felt familiar in a way he finds it difficult to describe. It is like muscle memory, the ability to fall back into old patterns and routines without conscious thought or deliberate action.

Well, not . the old patterns. He glances to the left, where John is slouched back into the couch, sock-clad feet against the floor, hands on his stomach. He looks content, and his hair is ruffled, and this is precisely the kind of moment where Sherlock would have kissed him, once upon a time.

The urge is still there, but Sherlock holds himself still, looking and not touching. It is muscle memory, he told himself. These feelings are the ghosts of what used to be creeping into what is now, and nothing more.

John looks to the right and catches him staring. He holds Sherlock’s gaze. Neither of them look away.

It would be easy. All it would take is to move a foot to the left, to reach out his hand and touch John somewhere, anywhere, to lean forward and press his lips to John’s throat. John would let him, probably.

Victor’s earnest expression pops up in the forefront of Sherlock’s brain, and he feels a stab of guilt, quickly followed by a stab of anger for having been made to feel guilty. Still, it is impossible to forget, now that he’s had the thought: Victor’s stupid blond hair that has grown too long and flops in his face when he sleeps, and the way he laughs too loud in public places, and the ridiculous v-neck shirt he’d worn to the club the only time they went.

Sherlock breaks away from the look he’s sharing with John and turns to stare at the blank telly screen. John clears his throat and then stands up to stretch.

“So,” he says, “you can use my bed tonight. I’ll stay out here.”

It feels like a dismissal, and it hurts, but it’s for the best. He rubs a hand through his hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. You haven’t slept in your own bed in months. You take it. I’m fine out here.”

He dares to glance up at John again and is relieved to see that he looks normal once more. John doesn’t look like he’s concerned at all with the moment they just shared. Sherlock bites back the urge to frown as he wonders if it was all in his head.

“You don’t have to do that,” John tells him, fighting through a yawn. “I can sleep anywhere, I think. I’m so tired.”

“Go to bed, John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Well, no. Get me some sheets and a pillow, and then go to bed.”

“Wanker.”

John disappears down the hall, reappearing a minute later holding sheets, a blanket, and a pillow. He throws the things down on the couch next to Sherlock and then motions for him to stand. When Sherlock doesn’t, he puts his hands on his hips. “One of us is going to make up your bed, and considering you’re incapable of taking care of yourself, I’m guessing it’s me. So come on, up you get.”

Sherlock sneers, but if John is going to insist on taking care of everything, he is hardly going to complain. He moves to perch on the arm rest, watching as John tucks the sheets around the cushions and unfolds the blankets. He fluffs the pillow Sherlock will use and sets it on the far end of the couch.

John straightens. He rubs at the back of his neck, his body language suddenly awkward. “I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything during the night.”

It seems an odd thing to say. Sherlock’s been here loads of times, and more recently than John, at that. “Why would I need anything?”

“No reason at all,” John mutters. He heads out of the room, pausing in the doorway with his hand over the switch. “Lights on or off?”

“Off, please.”

The room goes dark, and Sherlock hears the echo of John’s gait as he pads down the hallway. A door opens and shuts distantly, and a moment later, the toilet flushes. Running water, more footsteps, and then John is ensconced in his room, quiet for the evening.

It’s almost too calm inside the house. There’s something about the relative peace that puts Sherlock on edge—how long, he wonders, can it _really_ last? Instead of settling down and letting the relative silence lull him into sleep, he feels wired with the feeling that something this lovely cannot possibly be sustainable. His brain goes into overdrive, his thoughts flying about inside his skull, and he grits his teeth as he lies down, head on the pillow. He needs to organise his mind, put things back in the proper place.

He knows what has called all the disorder.

There’s a throbbing behind his left eye that comes from nowhere. Stress, most likely. If he is stressed, it is only because he has been avoiding thinking in-depth about the entire situation—John, Victor, all of it. It’s unlike Sherlock, he realises, to not want to know things, but in this particular instance, where one false move could end in the termination of one of the two most important relationships in his life, he supposes his own avoidance isn’t entirely out of character. 

Clarity, that’s what he needs, and it will only come with deliberation and order.

He considers John. They’ve not been together since the summer, and John himself doused any sort of rekindling nearly two months ago. As much as the entire process has upset him, when Sherlock looks at it with an objective eye, he can see all of John’s points clearly. Does he want to pine endlessly for the next few years? Does he want that for John?

The answer to both of those questions is ‘no.’

That being said, nothing feels quite as finished as Sherlock would have guessed yesterday. Being with John again, even if they’ve spent the day platonically, has been both wonderful and difficult. The connection between them is still there. He remembers the look in John’s eyes when they’d stared at each other on the couch and feels a shiver run up his spine.

He is still attracted to John, although he always was, even before that day when John held his hand in the alleyway while they hid from Anderson’s gang of idiots. The urgency of it, however, has diminished. It’s been replaced with gnawing guilt at the thought of Victor.

His heart beats double time at the thought. He cares for Victor. He doesn’t love Victor the way he loved John, but if he’s honest with himself, he always no longer loves John the way he loved John.

John is still important, still paramount, but things are shifting, slipping away, moving toward something that is strictly friendship. There are threads there, and Sherlock can grasp them, if he wants, pull them tight and keep himself bound to John in the same way as before.

Or he can let it go. Be John’s friend, his best friend, and pursue this thing with Victor.

He bites his lip, trying to make out the details of the Watsons’ ceiling in the dark.

A door creaks open down the hallway, and the footsteps that accompany it are too heavy to be Harry’s. A moment later, the light flicks on in the living room, and John is standing there, arms crossed of his too-large sleep shirt.

“Fuck it,” he says, holding his ground. “This is ridiculous. You felt it, too, right? On the couch?”

Sherlock hisses against the light, shutting his eyes and throwing the blanket over his head. John is at his side in three strides, pulling it back to see Sherlock’s face. “Turn off the light, you idiot.”

“Nope. We’re talking, and I refuse to have this conversation in the dark.”

Groaning, Sherlock tries to wrestle the blanket away. It doesn’t work. John is stronger, and he is working from a better angle. He gives up, squinting as his eyes adjust. “You have absolutely no mercy.”

“You’re not going to distract me,” John says as he reaches under the blanket and grabs Sherlock’s ankle, dragging it to the floor. It lands with a thump, and John sits down in the now empty seat. Sherlock’s right leg is trapped behind him, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He ignores the baleful glare directed his way. “I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about it, and I figured that if _I_ was overanalyzing it, you were two seconds away from exploding, what with that brain of yours.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Sherlock pulls his foot out from behind John, making sure to kick him as he does so. He sits up, back against the arm rest. “I could have been sleeping just fine. My brain has nothing to do with it.”

John settles in, facing Sherlock on the opposite side of the couch. “That’s not the point. Also, you were not asleep, don’t lie.”

“God, do we _have_ to do this?”

“I wanted to kiss you,” John blurts. He goes red, and looks down at the couch. After a moment, he raises his gaze directly back to Sherlock. Just like John to be brave. “I’m pretty sure you wanted to kiss me, too.”

Sherlock says nothing. What is there to say? Confirm it? He feels a pang. He’s barely just begun with Victor, and he’s already considered throwing it away for—what, exactly? A night with John, followed by years of heartache and loneliness?

He doesn’t want that, and furthermore, Victor deserves better than that. Victor’s kinder than Sherlock is. Hell, he’s kinder than John is. He deserves Sherlock’s full attention. Perhaps he jumped into everything too quickly, acted on his attraction before he’d given his heart time to fully heal. The maudlin nature of the thought is annoying, but not entirely untrue.

Still, he’s made his choices, and he thinks they might have been the right ones.

Silence reigns, and John takes that as an invitation to carry on. He takes in a breath, huffs it out through his nose. “How do you feel that?”

“I’m glad we didn’t,” Sherlock says, maybe too quickly. John looks up, the movement sharp, but he doesn’t seem angry. His shoulders are roll forward and relax; he’s _relieved_ , which is a relief to Sherlock, as well.

“Good. That’s really good to hear. I mean, you’re with Victor, and by all accounts, he seems like a decent enough bloke, so I’d have felt awful if I had done something to mess that up for you.”

“This,” Sherlock pauses to find a word, but it escapes him. “Thing between us. We haven’t seen each other in months. There were bound to be residual emotions. It makes sense that we would still feel attracted to one another. The chemicals in the brain—“

John interrupts, “Thank you, not in need of a biology lesson.”

“I’m just _saying_ \--we resisted, and that was the hardest part.”

“Right. All uphill from here. The important thing is that we don’t lose sight of our friendship, and I don’t think there’s any real danger of that. I mean, look at us. We’re communicating right now.”

Sherlock fights the urge to roll his eyes and slumps down, curling into a ball. “No need to go for the touching moment, John. Are we alright?”

“Yeah, we’re alright,” John says as he flicks Sherlock’s ankle. “I just wanted to address it. I knew it would bother me if I didn’t.”

“Best not to let these things fester,” Sherlock agrees, but he mostly says it so John will leave. His eyelids are starting to feel surprisingly heavy. The middle of the night is not the proper time for conversations like these. John doesn’t get up, however, and when he opens his eyes, his friend is staring at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It’s the stupidest answer. Sherlock knows it’s not nothing; John can’t lie to him. He hasn’t been able to since the day they met. John reads like an open book. Everything he thinks and feels shows in his face. It’s part of why he would make a terrible gambler. Sherlock makes a mental note to warn him about that.

He burrows his face into the pillow. It smells stale, like it was kept in one place too long and never used. “What did I just say about festering?”

“Just wondering how I manage to be best friends with someone who is such an arse,” John replies. He grins when Sherlock peeks up from the pillow and glares. With a stretch and a yawn, he starts to head out of the room.

The words bubble up and out of Sherlock before he can stop them. “You can’t lie to me. I always know.”

John pauses and turns around. The light above him turns his hair a sort of golden color, and it makes something inside of Sherlock ache to see it. It’s not acute, though, not anymore.

“I just didn’t know how much I missed you, until I got home. It’s been good to see you, Sherlock.”

It may not be the _whole_ truth, but it is definitely true. Sherlock fights back the smile that threatens to build. He says, “I missed you, too.”

It’s not like how it is when he says that to Victor, but—the situations aren’t really comparable, are they? Of course he’s going to miss John as he finishes out Phase Two training with the army and goes off to wherever he is assigned. Of course that’s going to matter more than a night away from Victor.

He needs to stop comparing the two of them, he suddenly realises. It should be obvious, especially to someone as clever as him, but Sherlock has never been very good with reading his own emotions. He had not expected to find one person to care about him, let alone two, and the shock of it all has upset his mental processes. Sentiment. It clogs up his brain, making him slow and dull and useless, just like everybody else.

What he had with John is finished. The lingering remains will fade with time, and in letting go of them, he’s not only preserving a very important friendship—he’s also opening himself up for whatever he is building with Victor.

Sherlock swallows thickly, his throat suddenly tight as he watches John flick off the light. John’s footsteps fade down the hallway as he goes back to bed.

In the dark, Sherlock flings a groping hand around the coffee table. He bumps into the pizza box and a glass of water before he finds his mobile. His eyes are still mostly adjusted to the light, and he does not wince when his screen flickers on. No texts from Victor—for all his jealousy, he’s letting Sherlock have this time. It’s endearing, to say the least.

He opens an empty text. _Thinking about you. SH_

The response is immediate, as if Victor already had his mobile in hand. _Yeah?_

_Yeah. SH_

_:)_

_It’s late. Goodnight, Sherlock._

_Goodnight. SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the Harry Potter movies were on television this weekend, so I didn't update.
> 
> My favorite part of this story is that I posted about Harry Potter weekend on my tumblr and warned everyone I wouldn't be updating, and absolutely no one sent me hate. All I got were messages about how I had my priorities in order.
> 
> Seriously, dudes, that was great. You are all great. Sorry I'm probably writing things that make you sad.
> 
> Let me know what you thought! Come say hello on tumblr! Tell me about my (probably numerous) typos (my beta is in bed, and I'm lazy)! Use #the thorny path on tumblr tag and make my day! Or don't, if you don't want to! That is fine, as well!
> 
> It's late. I'm tired. Stop judging me for my love of the exclamation mark!
> 
> See you on Sunday!


	23. Chapter 22

Sherlock wakes abruptly when he feels three quick pinches on his calf. He stirs, eyes bleary against the daylight just starting to shine in through the window. Near his feet, Harry watches him, looking more alert than she has since he saw her yesterday.

“Budge up,” she commands, pinching him once more for good measure.

If she weren’t already injured, he’d consider giving her a tap to the stomach with his foot. He thinks better of that plan, however, and instead pushes himself into a seated position, grumbling all the way. She sits down at the other end of the couch, looking pleased with herself. Her bad arm is pulled into her chest as she reaches forward and grabs the remote off the coffee table.

“I wanted to watch telly,” she says, by way of explanation. At his unimpressed face, she shrugs. “You don’t like to sleep, anyway.”

“Did you have to pinch?” Sherlock’s voice sounds raspy with the night’s disuse. He glares half-heartedly.

Harry shrugs. “I’m a little sister. It’s what we do.”

She turns on cartoons, settling into the sofa. Sherlock glares, but he doesn’t mean it, and he is sure that shows on his face. It’s difficult to pinpoint the moment when Harry became more than John’s annoying little sister. Two years ago, he never would have found this behavior endearing. Now, he’s letting her have her way because he’s afraid her arm hurts. The Watsons have done something to him. He’s not sure he likes it.

Slowly, Harry creeps closer to him, until her head is propped up against his arm. She sighs. “My body hurts.”

“I’m sure that there are more painkillers around here—“

“No,” she says quickly. “They make me feel funny. I’m not sure I like it.”

The first thing that comes to mind is, _what’s not to like_? However, he figures he ought not to say that to a ten year old girl. 

He considers the slow calm of marijuana, the startling rush of cocaine. Would Victor like to do that again, he wonders? With both of them properly high this time, not just Sherlock. He can remember the way the drug had made him itch under his skin, made him hot all over, made him want something that he had trouble putting a name to but had definitely required less clothing than he’d been wearing.

Maybe Victor would—

A sleepy yawn from the doorway. John stands there, stretching his arms above his head so that a sliver of the skin above his waistband appears. When he drops his arms back to his sides, it hides once again. He shuffles to the couch, scratching his side. “Harry? You should still be asleep. You arm—“

“Is broken, not cut off. Besides, I went to bed right after dinner last night because I was so tired. I slept a ton.” Harry pats the open seat on the couch to her right. She picks up the remote and begins to flip through the channels quickly.

Sherlock glances to his right, above Harry’s head, but John is staring at the telly. He seems very focused on the screen, but John has never been a large fan of any shows that would be playing on a Sunday morning. No, this is avoidance. But why? Their conversation last night? It had ended on a positive note, or so Sherlock had thought.

John looks to his left, catches Sherlock’s eye. He grins. Sherlock’s world rights itself.

“Okay,” he says, apropos to nothing, “I say we scrap the telly and instead play a game. What do you think of that, Harry?”

She holds up her arm, clad in its cast. “I can’t play Mario Kart, though.”

“No, no. Not a video game, a board game. You know, the kind with real, live interaction between us as human beings?” He pokes his sister in the side, which is turn drives her to cuddle closer to Sherlock. He stares down in alarm before looking up to see John’s expression change to something soft.

Harry giggles a bit, stretching out her leg in order to kick at John. “Alright, alright. If we _have_ to.”

“We do,” he declares. He rushes from the room. Distantly, Sherlock can hear him say good morning to his parents, who shuffle by on their way to the kitchen a moment later. They give Sherlock twin grins when they see Harry cuddled up with him. He wishes everyone would stop smiling like that because he is wholly uncomfortable with it.

John comes in a moment later, brandishing a box. He flips it so Sherlock and Harry can see the front. “Who fancies a game of Cluedo?”

\--

“No, Sherlock, you can’t do that. It’s not in the rules.”

“The rules are wrong, then. Clearly, this was suicide.”

Harry lets out a groan and falls flat onto her back, apparently finished with the conversation. She keeps her injured arm cradled to her chest to prevent it from feeling the impact. “Johnny, we are never doing anything you say, ever again.”

“Right, but,” John starts. He cuts himself off when he hears his text tone and busies himself looking at the screen.

It’s the thirty-third text he’s received since the start of the game. He has replied twenty-nine times. 

“It’s your turn, John,” Harry says, flicking her hand toward the board.

John nods, but he’s distracted, smiling at his screen. He hits a button and goes to set the mobile down on the carpet next to him. It buzzes again before it ever reaches its destination, and he brings it right back to his face.

Who is it? Sherlock wants to take the phone away from him, text whoever it is, and tell them to leave John alone. They are interrupting the only weekend John and Sherlock will have together for who knows how long. He hates that the new term starts tomorrow. If only John had come home last weekend instead…

Although, with the way he’s been acting all morning, it is possible that he would have spent the whole time glued to his damned mobile in that instance, as well.

Some petty, selfish part of Sherlock whispers that it _must_ be Mary. Dear Mary, to whom John has grown so attached since he left. She’s important, more important than John has let on. He never mentions her, and yet Sherlock knows that they have kept in touch ever since Molly Hooper introduced them a year ago. Why would he not talk about her? There are only two real options—the first is because he never thinks of her.

The second is because he thinks of her all the time and doesn’t want Sherlock to know.

He huffs out a sigh. “It’s _still_ your turn,” he says, as he makes a half-hearted attempt at grabbing John’s mobile.

That is what snaps John out of his stupor, more than anything. He twitches backward, keeping his phone safely in his own palm, and then gestures widely at the board. “I thought Sherlock said he had solved it.”

“You weren’t listening,” Harry accuses, still lying on her back on the floor. “He said that Professor Plum must have killed himself.”

John grins at Sherlock. “You know that’s not in the rules, right?”

“You Watsons are both impossible.”

Harry makes a whiny noise in her throat. “My arm hurts, and Sherlock is _cheating_.”

“It’s not cheating if—“

“Sherlock,” John cuts him off. He pushes himself up, and holds out a hand to Harry, who grabs it with her good arm. A moment later, he hauls her into a standing position and starts to herd her toward the door. “She’s hurt. Take it easy on her.” He musses her hair gently, affectionately. “C’mon, you, let’s go get you something for the pain.”

It must be worse than Harry was letting on because she follows John obediently. Sherlock glares at their backs. He certainly wasn’t being hard on Harry, it’s just that the rules are wrong. There is nothing that has happened in their gameplay that would preclude the possibility of—

John left his mobile behind.

Sherlock stares. He glances toward the empty doorway, then back at the abandoned mobile. When he strains, he can faintly hear John going through drawers as he looks for paracetamol. Mrs. Watson says something indistinct, but if Sherlock had to guess (which he never does), he would bet that she’s directing him to look in different places.

He has three minutes, he estimates, based on John’s perceptiveness and Harry’s behavior.

Some distant part of him is aware that he should not touch the phone. It’s John’s personal property, and who John texts is none of his business. They broke up ages ago, during the summer, and even if things have remained muddled, it’s not as though Sherlock has any right to look.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks, and grabs the mobile.

John’s passcode is painfully easy to figure out (Sherlock’s birth month and year, he got the mobile when they had just started dating). Within a few seconds, all of his messages are there before him. There are two from Greg, asking for an update on the plans for the next evening. Any unanswered text from Molly, saying how she can’t wait to see him.

There are thirty messages from Mary Morstan from this morning alone.

The conversation goes back for months and months. There is not enough time for him to look at each text, although he would like to, so instead Sherlock scrolls until he sees one from John to her, late last night.

_Told him I wanted to kiss him. I’m an idiot. But it’s fine, I think. Nothing seems unfixable, which is a relief. We talked about being friends, and it’s going to be just as it was._

Mary’s reply is time stamped for a minute later, despite the late hour at which John texted her. It reads: _We can’t have this conversation over text. Call? Wait for coffee on Monday?_

_S has ears like a hawk, so I’ll wait for Monday. Thanks for listening._

_Anytime. Now shh. Time for bed._

The texts quit for several hours—sleeping, then. The time stamp on John’s first message to her in the morning shows that he was up for nearly forty minutes before he came out to join Sherlock and Harry on the couch. Something in Sherlock swells with hurt. He tries to tamp it down, with little success. John doesn’t owe him anything, he reminds himself.

Except that they’re _supposed_ to be best friends, and he ignored Sherlock in favour of texting some _girl_.

The most damning text of all is at the very end. She and John have made a coffee date for the next day, at Speedy’s on Baker Street. 

He’s jealous, he realises, and it is not a flattering look on him. He wants to find Mary Morstan and publically deduce all her secrets so that she’s mortified and John hates her and never speaks to her again.

Footsteps in the hallway. Sherlock exits out of John’s inbox and then hits the button on the top hand corner, making the screen go black. He sets the mobile back down in its previous position. John enters a moment later, shaking his head.

“She’s ridiculous. Her arm hurts, but she’s pitching a fit about taking anything that would help it feel better. Where is the sense in that?” He settles back down on the floor and automatically picks up his mobile. When he sees there is no new message, he sets it back down. “Anyway. Only a few hours left, the two of us. What would you like to do?”

In Sherlock’s head, he sees the thirty text messages Mary has sent John. He feels hot, like his blood is boiling inside his body, and he dumps over the Cluedo board, scattering the pieces across the floor.

“What the hell, Sherlock!?” John cries out.

Everything bubbles up inside of him. _You’ve been texting someone else all morning. I’m right here, but you’re texting her. I want to be the most important person in your life. I wish she didn’t exist and that you’d never joined the army and I don’t care if that’s wrong or selfish, I just don’t._ There are thoughts and emotions, but they all come in such a rush that he is overwhelmed. How can he find the words to describe the tumult happening inside his head—it’s impossible.

So he doesn’t even try. Instead, he sighs deeply and waves a weary hand at the debris of their game.

“Bored,” he declares.

\--

When the doorbell rings that evening, Sherlock is surprised. He’d have figured, what with Victor’s natural awkwardness, that he would have preferred to send Sherlock a text from the safety of his own car. Guilt gnaws at him for the rush of relief he feels knowing that Victor has arrived to take him away from this.

No, that’s not true, not really. Sherlock glances over at John, who stares back, giving him a sad smile. Yesterday had been fun, but after their moment on the couch, things had changed, and it’s affected the way they’ve treated each other all day. Things got better after Sherlock dumped the Cluedo game and John stopped pouting about it. They’d watched tv while sitting a respectable distance away from each other, mostly ignoring the Doctor Who marathon in favour of catching up.

It’s not like it used to be, though. It’s not as easy or as natural, and Sherlock doesn’t know how to fix it, and he hates it. Friendship with John was easy from the moment they met. Now, however, it’s difficult, and Victor’s come to take him away before they fix it, and he despises this endless sentimentality and resolves to purge himself of all emotion as soon as possible because clearly Mycroft was right for once in his miserable life: _caring is not an advantage_.

“John,” Sherlock says, when he hears the buzzer ring a second time. No one in the house has moved to open to door.

John smiles at him. It’s sad, but it touches his eyes in a way that lets Sherlock know it’s at least party genuine. “I don’t know when I’ll get to see you again. Probably not until after Phase Two ends. I should have a little bit of time before they give me my assignment.”

“Right. Well.” Sherlock stands, and John follows after sticking out a hand. Sherlock accepts it, shaking it once. Inside, part of him screams to say something, anything, but all he manages is, “Make sure to call me soon. Hope the rest of your time at home goes well.”

He doesn’t mean it. He thinks of John going to get coffee with Mary Morstan and his stomach turns.

Something about the way John grasps his hand—the sweatiness of his palm, the way he grips a bit too tight—makes Sherlock think that he’s going to say something. The moment passes, however, and their hands drop away, and John gives him a very customary pat on the arm.

The silence between them stretches long and awkward until Harry suddenly breaks it by stomping into the room. “Hel _lo_ , did neither of you here the doorbell? I had to get it myself!”

“Well, I’m very glad you survived such an ordeal,” John teases her. He breezes past Sherlock and motions to Victor, who hovers awkwardly in the doorway. Harry let him in, but she must not have been very interested in playing host. “Come on in. I made Sherlock pack an hour ago so that he wouldn’t hold you two up. I know you’ve both got classes tomorrow.”

Victor grins at John, but it turns up ten-fold in intensity when he Sherlock catches his eye. He looks so happy that for a moment Sherlock feels bad about how miserable he feels. Thankfully, Victor doesn’t seem to notice; he spots Sherlock’s bag abandoned by the couch and leans over to pick it up, throwing it over his shoulder. “Thanks. Nice to meet you, John, Harry. Sherlock, you ready?”

He is not, but he follows Victor to the door, anyway. He pauses under the frame, watches as Victor heads out to the car and throws his bag into the back seat, and then he turns and finds John behind him. He’s full of things he cannot puts words to.

“I’ll talk to you soon,” John says.

“Right,” Sherlock replies.

He turns and heads out to the car, opening the passenger door and slamming it behind him once he is inside. He tells himself not to look back as Victor pulls away, but of course he does, and of course John is still standing there, waving, and of course Sherlock waves back and swallows against the tight feeling in his throat.

He puts his feet up on the dashboard and rests his forehead against his knees. He needs silence. He needs to go into his mind palace and reorganize everything, to delete that stupid memory of John’s mobile chiming and him rushing to the beck and call of Mary Morstan.

Unfortunately, what he gets is Victor’s cheery voice in his ear. “So, did you have a nice time? I was really glad you texted me. I hadn’t expected that, you know, but it was good to hear.”

“It was marvelous,” Sherlock deadpans. He does not look up, but speaks into his knees, muffling his voice.

Victor does not take the hint. “Had a nice visit with my Dad. He’s talking a lot about me working for him once I graduate. I think he’s hoping to retire in the next few years and wants to have me take over, which is exciting.”

Sherlock isn’t even entirely sure what Victor’s father does. No doubt Victor has told him, but it was probably boring, so Sherlock deleted it. He does not reply, hoping to discourage Victor’s habit of prattling on, and it works, as Victor trails off.

At least, for a moment. “Did you and John have a fight?”

“What?” Sherlock looks up. “No.”

“Okay. You’re just acting a bit…stroppy, is all, and you don’t usually act like this unless you’re extremely bored.”

Sherlock decides not to dignify that with a response. He drops his feet to the floor and shifts so that his back is toward Victor. His forehead rests against the window, jostling every time they hit a pot hole.

Victor clears his throat. “Seriously, though. What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong is that John is going out for coffee with some girl. What’s wrong is that it was perfectly okay to move on when Sherlock was the one doing it, but it feels significantly less satisfying to watch John do the same. What’s wrong is that Victor will not _shut up and like him think_.

“Nothing is wrong!” He fairly explodes. His breath fogs the glass. “Everything is perfectly fine. Leave me alone.”

The car accelerates. Victor always drives faster when he’s nervous. He loses his wits and gains a lead foot. “You can talk to me, you know. You’re acting so strange. I thought…well, I mean, you texted me last night, so I thought you’d missed me. I was excited to see you.”

Vitriol rises up Sherlock’s throat. He could spew it at Victor, hurt him, and part of Sherlock wants to, simply because he is aching in some way he never has before and Victor is _there_. He opens his mouth and then abruptly shuts it.

Hurting Victor won’t make him feel better. Well, at least not in the long term.

“Something happened, didn’t it?” Victor goes on, apparently unaware of Sherlock’s deliberation. “God, I knew it. I knew this was a bad idea.”

“What are you talking about?”

Victor breathes out through his nose. The sound is strangely heavy, and when Sherlock glances over, he sees that Victor’s shoulders are taut with tension, his knuckles are white on the steering wheel. They’re still going too fast, and Sherlock isn’t sure when this conversation slipped so completely from his control.

In response to his question, Victor says, “Why don’t _you_ tell _me_.”

“That would be impossible, seeing as I have no idea—“

He stops, runs through the conversation in his head. Victor must think that something happened—physically, emotionally, whatever—between him and John. Sherlock isn’t sure which is his primary emotion: surprise, anger, disbelief, or weariness.

He waves a hand. “Oh, you mean _that_.”

Victor lurches, every tight muscle of his frame crumpling as he barely manages to direct his car to the side of the road. He puts it in park and turns off the engine, leaning forward until his forehead presses against the steering wheel. “This is my fault. I knew better. It was obvious you weren’t over him, and I let myself get so involved anyway, and…”

“You really think I did it,” Sherlock interjects into Victor’s self-pitying monologue. His initial shock has given way, and he feels bitter, wrathful words clawing at the backs of his teeth, begging to be let out. “You really think I would do that.”

Turning his head without lifting it, Victor peeks up between lanks of his blonde, curly fringe. “You didn’t deny it.”

Sherlock scoffs. “Oh, is that all you needed? Very well, I deny it.”

“This isn’t funny, Sherlock. I mean—I know he’s your great love, or whatever, but still. We’re together.” He sounds so hurt, and it only makes Sherlock angrier. “You should have texted me, or something. Let me know.”

The words pop out of his mouth before Sherlock can stop them. “Fuck you.”

Victor blinks, eyes wide and owlish. “What?”

“Fuck you. Do you have any idea…? Of course you don’t.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, his patience gone. “We were sitting on the couch, and for a moment…” He trails off, looks away. “Well, for a moment, it seemed like something might occur between us. But I thought of you, and I chose you, and so absolutely nothing happened.”

It’s true, but it is not the whole truth. Yes, he picked his budding relationship with Victor over a tentative something with John that would have to last through four years of strain and loneliness. But he hadn’t known, then, that John had options out there waiting for him. Options that have experience with patience, with understanding the military life. Options that can provide more than Sherlock ever could.

Would he have chosen differently, had he known?

There’s no point in hypotheticals. What is done is done, and all the facts remain the same: John is not a viable partner while he is in the army, and Sherlock does not want to spend the next four years pining. And Victor—Victor is kind and warm and sweet and caring, and somehow he manages to be all those things and still like Sherlock, which is amazing in and of itself, but not only that—Sherlock actually _likes_ him.

Victor licks his lips as he straightens up. He reaches for Sherlock’s hand, hesitant as he twines their fingers together. “You didn’t…?”

“No,” Sherlock replies. His voice is steady. “I didn’t.”

“Because of me?”

 _For the most part_ , Sherlock thinks. “Yes.”

Using the hand grasped in his own, Victor tugs Sherlock closer and presses his face into Sherlock’s neck. His voice sounds wrecked and weak as he murmurs into the skin there. “I’m so jealous. So completely jealous, you have no idea. I was trying not to be because I know how important he is to you, but I worried the whole weekend that you’d realise you’d made a horrible mistake. I thought for sure you would dump me. And then, after your text, I decided that I was just being silly, making things more complicated than they really were. All in my head, you know? But you were so upset when I picked you up, and…”

Victor explanation is nice to hear, but unnecessary. It’s easy enough to deduce Victor’s motivations, and to tailor his response to Victor’s emotional needs. “I’m not going to see him again for months, and despite what’s happened between us, he’s still my friend. The prospect of being separated for so long is upsetting.”

“That makes so much sense,” Victor says, relief palpable in his voice. “I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “A _jealous_ idiot.”

There’s a tap to his arm, but Victor is smiling when he pulls away. His eyes are a bit overbright; he must have been genuinely upset. The idea that Victor cares so much is equal parts baffling and flattering. Sherlock definitely likes it, even if he doesn’t understand.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try to be better about it.”

Sherlock reaches up and cups Victor’s cheek. He kisses him once, chastely, and then settles back into his seat. “It’s alright. We’re fine.”

Before he starts his car, Victor quickly leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock’s temple. He nuzzles at the fine hairs there gently, and then puts the car into drive, rejoining the traffic.

\--

When Sherlock's alarm goes off the next morning for his morning class, he shuts it off. He could go, he thinks, and be bored out of his mind as the professor hands out a syllabus and discusses class expectations, or he could skip, take the train to London, and see just what happens when John meets up with Mary Morstan.

There is no debate. Sherlock slips out of bed and goes straight to Oliver's wardrobe to raid it for a suitable disguise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once upon a time, this story has been stressing me out to the max, and I need a break from it. I'm going on a trip next week, so there will definitely be no update. In two weeks, I'll either post the next chapter, or let you know if this is going on a hiatus. Check my tumblr for updates. If you have any questions, drop me a line in a comment here on in an ask on tumblr.
> 
> Also, I recently became a mod at FuckYeahTeenlock. :D If you have any suggestions for teen/uni/kid/parentlock stories you'd like to be reviewed, let me know!


	24. Chapter 23

Sherlock has been on the train to London for twenty minutes when he gets the first text message. It’s seven minutes past the time he expected it. Mycroft is sluggish this morning.

_I don’t suppose I need to explain to you that what you’re doing is both selfish and foolish._

The train is a bit too cold for comfort, and Sherlock burrows deeper into the overlarge jumper he stole from Oliver’s closet this morning. Oliver has yet to turn up at their shared room, but it’s only the first day of classes. He probably fixed his schedule so that he doesn’t have to attend a lecture every day, and that works for Sherlock. At any rate, it means that his idiot of a roommate isn’t likely to notice his missing clothes.

The jumper smells faintly of chips. If only he had someone else to steal from, Sherlock thinks with a sigh. He rests his head against the window and watches the scenery, not really taking anything in.

He’s doing it. He’s going to follow John and Mary on their little rendezvous. He’s spying on John.

Mycroft’s text weighs on him, and he frowns. Of course, Sherlock knows what he’s doing is wrong. He’s betraying John’s trust and privacy, and he does feel guilty about it—but it’s also a bit exciting, the idea of donning a disguise, knowing something that other people think he does not.

He’s always liked to know things.

His mobile chirps again. _I advise you to get back on the train as soon as you arrive in London. I will cover the cost of the ticket, if you prefer, but do not follow through with this plan._

_I don’t recall asking your permission. SH_

The reply is a mistake, and Sherlock knows that as soon as he’s sent it. Mycroft is busy; if ignored, he will eventually leave off, if only because he’ll get distracted in plotting his ascent up the ranks of the government. Answering that text, however, was just adding fuel to the fire—and when he hears his text tone a moment later, regret hits him square in the chest.

_I am simply trying to keep you from ruining the two most important relationships in your life. How do you think John will react if he sees you? What will your Victor say if he finds out you’d skipped classes to stalk your ex-boyfriend?_

It’s too sensible an answer. He doesn’t want to be sensible about this. If he doesn’t go, if he doesn’t find out just what John plans to say to her, Sherlock knows he’ll spend weeks agonizing over it. He’ll play out every possible scenario in his head; he already has fourteen different plausible possibilities rattling around his brain. He can feel them simmering underneath his skin, distracting him.

John won’t see him. Sherlock is too good at hiding in plain sight for that to happen. And Victor? Well, Victor will never know.

His mobile dings, and Sherlock, with a huff of annoyance, turns it on silent.

_You’re jealous. This is a mistake._

Those two words hit Sherlock in his bones, and he glares at the screen. He wants Mycroft to be wrong for once, wans it more than anything, but it’s true. He _is_ jealous, and he doesn’t know what that means.

He likes Victor, but he’s jealous of Mary, of Mary being close to John. Neither of those facts adds up to any simple deduction. It doesn’t tell him what he ought to do.

_It is mine to make. SH_

He stuffs his mobile back into his pocket. Mycroft is probably still texting him, but he has nothing to say that could be in any way enlightening, Sherlock is sure. After all, who has Mycroft ever loved? He’s never even had a proper friend. There is no way his brother understands the situation.

He wraps his arms around his middle and passes the rest of the train ride resolutely not thinking about the moral ambiguity involved in what he is doing.

\--

As soon as his feet hit London pavement, Sherlock hails a cab. He knows the place that John and Mary are meeting, although he’s not sure of the address, and as the cabbie slows to a halt in front of him, he realises he’s going to have to look it up using his mobile. His plan to ignore his phone and therefore Mycroft has been foiled much more swiftly than he would have liked.

He fishes it out of his pocket, anyway, and unlocks the screen. Mycroft’s texted him three more times, and Sherlock deletes the messages without reading a word of them.

He stomach drops when he sees a text from Victor.

_Did something happen? I thought we were meeting after morning classes for breakfast._

Swiping his thumb over the screen, Sherlock exits out of his messages and goes to the search bar. He types in the name of the coffee shop and notes the address for the cabbie glaring at him from the front street. As they pull into traffic, he brings Victor’s text back up.

If he goes through the room in his mind palace that is dedicated to all things Victor (a room that is growing bigger and bigger, slowly but surely), he vaguely recalls not paying attention to Victor as he asked after Sherlock’s plans for the first day of the new term. Guilt roils in Sherlock’s stomach, but he tamps it down. He needs to do this for himself.

He hesitates, then taps out: _Something came up. Sorry. SH_ Not precisely a lie. _Will tell you about it later. SH_ Definitely a lie. _Dinner instead? SH_

He worries his lip as he waits for the reply, which comes fairly quickly.

_:(_

_Well, we could do dinner, or…_

Sherlock rolls his eyes. Just like Victor to avoid the point. _Or…? SH_

_You can totally say no, but Darah is having a get together tonight at her place. A sort of the-new-term-has-started-and-we’re-fucked party. She wanted to know if we could stop by. If you don’t want to, though, it’s okay._

Despite himself, Sherlock smiles at his screen. In anyone else, the fumbling and awkwardness would be annoying, but somehow, Victor makes it endearing. He’s not sure how he manages it. In his own way, Victor is the second most impossible person Sherlock has ever met.

He apparently waits too long to reply because another text comes through before he gives his answer.

_I think it’s starts at like 9 or something, which is kind of early, so we don’t have to get there then. And we wouldn’t have to stay the whole time. Or we could just not go at all. I don’t care. I’d just like to see you, is all._

Remorse sits heavy on Sherlock’s shoulders. He watches London pass by outside his window, wondering what to say. He’s almost convinced himself that he ought to be honest with Victor, is sure that the text he composes will include a crude explanation and probably an apology, but—

Victor’s friends had seemed tolerable enough, during his first, brief meeting with them. Parties are not Sherlock’s preferred environment. They’re depressing; too many idiots in too small a space. But Victor has asked him, and he asks for so little of Sherlock. He doesn’t need to know about today’s particular adventure. He would get the wrong impression; he might think that Sherlock still loves John and that he hasn’t moved on.

The cabbie takes a left and pulls up in front of a coffee shop. Twenty-five minutes until John and Mary are set to meet; he is plenty early to settle in. He shoves a few notes toward the other man and climbs out, heading inside and joining the back of the line at the counter. He thumbs out a quick message to Victor.

_Of course I’ll go with you. I want to see you. Pick me up at 8:30? SH_

_:) :) :) :)_

_Sure! See you then!_

He shoves his mobile into his pocket and tells himself he does not feel bad. What he said was true, after all. He does want to see Victor.

Sherlock orders a macchiato and lingers by the counter, casting an eye about the shop and trying decide where he ought to sit. If John arrives first, he will pick the seat nearest the window. He’ll want to be able to keep an eye out for Mary; John hates to feel unprepared. It’s harder to guess where Mary will choose to sit if she’s the first one to get here, but if Sherlock were forced to pick, he’d guess a table against the far wall, as far from everyone else as possible.

Either way, his best vantage point is in the front corner of the shop, tucked behind a paper he picks up next to the counter. He’ll be able to hear their conversation without sitting obviously close, and the shadows in the corner will provide him a little extra cover. His drink is handed to him a minute later, and he makes himself comfortable, careful to change his posture and gestures so that he’ll go unnoticed by even the most observant people. He flips the hood of the sweatshirt up over his hair, tucking errant strands behind his ears.

Ten minutes later, John walks in. The only sign that he is nervous—and Sherlock sees it, of course he sees it, he sees everything about John—is the clenching and unclenching of his left hand as he orders a plain black coffee.

John sits himself in the exact table Sherlock expected, with his back to Sherlock and his face toward the front door. Sherlock watches the tension in John’s back. When Mary walks in a few minutes later, he watches how quickly that same tension evaporates. John’s posture dips and relaxes as she grabs a pastry from the front counter and slides in across from him.

“So,” Mary grins. He can only make out part of her face as she tilts it down to take a bite of a scone. He holds up his paper a little higher in order to cover himself better. “I know you’re going to do that polite thing you do where you ask after my family and how uni is going and everything, so I figured I’d save us the trouble, yeah? My family is fine. Dad’s retirement is driving Mum nuts, I think, as he has no idea what to do and spends all day fixing Mum’s appliances.”

Johns’ voice is easy and clear; he’s comfortable with her. But he’s comfortable with everyone, Sherlock reasons, or at least very good at faking it. “What’s so bad about that?”

“They aren’t broken.” They both laugh. “Or, well, I guess they are now, but they weren’t originally. And, oh! My course is going very well. My parents still aren’t thrilled that I’ve decided to pursue a degree in English literature, but you know. They’re adjusting.”

“What’s your coursework like?” John asks, and Sherlock flicks down the corner of his paper just in time to see Mary give another one of those grins of hers. She always smiles like she knows something everyone else doesn’t.

She shakes her head. “Nope. Nuh-uh. Not happening. You’re not getting out of this that easily, mister.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” John replies, but the ignorance in his voice is so clearly feigned that even Sherlock struggles not to roll his eyes.

“I have it on good authority,” she says around another bite of scone, “And by good authority, I mean you texted me about it, that you and Sherlock nearly kissed this weekend. Details, sir. I demand them.”

Sherlock watches John tense up again and swallows down the knowledge that he’s the one that does that to John, makes John feel like that.

“There’s nothing to tell. Like I said, we didn’t kiss. He seems pretty happy with his new boyfriend.”

Mary leans across the table and picks up John’s coffee, helping herself to a sip of it. She makes a face when she puts it back down. “Ugh, plain black coffee? What is wrong with you?” He doesn’t answer, but Sherlock would guess that John is rolling his eyes. “Anyway, tell me about the mysterious Victor.”

“Not very mysterious at all, actually. Kind of…” John’s voice trails off. “I don’t know, kind of like a puppy? That sounds weird. He just seems to be really happy. And he obviously really likes Sherlock.”

Sherlock frowns at the newsprint he is very obviously not reading. He turns a page in order to better sell his disguise. It’s true that Victor is a bit happy-go-lucky and that his devotion to Sherlock has happened very suddenly—but that doesn’t mean that _John_ is allowed to think that, let alone say it to someone else.

“Okay, you are obviously not a girl. I meant is he as fit as you?”

John makes flustered noises and Sherlock hates that he can’t see John’s face. He can guess it well enough, though, what with the sputtering and the awkward fidgeting. John had seemed so much self-assured over the weekend, the army having bolstered his self-confidence. It’s strange to see him revert back to this. It’s almost the way he was when he and Sherlock first started dating.

Sherlock sees the connection, makes it. He does not dwell on it.

“I’m not…” John clears his throat. “I don’t know. He was pretty handsome, I guess.”

“John,” Mary says, her voice suddenly serious. “John, look at me.” There’s no noise for a moment. Sherlock peeks around his paper to find John staring at Mary. She continues, “Tell me the truth, here. You alright?”

Silence.

“No, seriously. Tell me. I want to know.”

“I mean, I’m not _not_ alright, if that makes sense.” John heaves a sigh; it sounds like it comes from the depths of his soul, and Sherlock tries to subtly lean in closer to everything happening. “It’s just—I thought I was okay with the Victor thing, you know, with Sherlock having moved on and all, but it was…different, seeing it for myself. Seeing them for myself. And I think, you know….”

Sherlock carefully makes sure he does not grip the paper tightly and crinkle it.

“Go on.”

John barks out a laugh, and it is awful and wrong and Sherlock hates it, and he hates that it’s his fault that John is making it. “It’s horrible. I know it is, so you don’t need to tell me. But it’s just that—I thought that he and I were…” His voice trails off, and he’s quiet for a minute before he picks up again. “And I know I told him not to wait, I _know_ , but I kind of thought he would anyway. And he didn’t, and he’s happy, and it’s not like I’m upset about that. I want him to be happy. But I still believed that, you know?”

Mary lets out a quiet noise. “Oh, John…”

There’s something gravelly in John’s voice when he says, “I really think he broke my heart.”

Everything in Sherlock freezes. He breathes in deeply, lets it out slowly. John’s words echo in his head again and again— _he broke my heart, he broke_ my _heart_. They make sense, Sherlock comprehends the meaning of each word, and yet they are Mandarin, for all Sherlock understands them.

He broke _John’s_ heart?

The ice in his stomach melts abruptly.

Months ago, he’d practically begged for John back, had asked and pleaded and been so patient, and here John is, accusing _Sherlock_ of being the heartbreaker. John was the one who said no, Sherlock seethes. He was the one who wanted them to not spend four years pining for each other; he has no right to also be the one who is devastated. One does not get to play the instigator and the victim.

Sherlock is just so _angry_. He wants to let the paper drop away, to stand and move into John’s space. He wants to proclaim his presence, watch John sink into guilt at the total unfairness of everything he’s saying.

He also rather wants to—scream? Cry? He isn’t sure. He feels like his soul revolting inside him, but there’s no outlet, no way to express it.

His throat has gone tight and he holds his position. He turns the page of the paper calmly.

“You know, maybe it’s a good thing. I mean, if you’ve been holding on to that hope, you haven’t been really letting yourself move on, you know? And I think you ought to. Move on, I mean.” There’s the sound of metal scraping across the table—a watch or a bracelet, maybe, as Mary moves to catch John’s hands in hers. Sherlock can’t see it, but oh, he can.

John nods his head, and Sherlock watches the motion over the top of his paper. “You’re right. I know you are. It’s just…easier said than done, I think.”

“You’ll get there.” Mary sounds so reassuring, so supportive. Sherlock hates her. “Look, what I’m about to say is completely out of line, and since I’m acknowledging that up front, I need you to promise you won’t be mad at me about it.”

There’s confusion written in John’s voice when he says, “Okay?”

“Okay. So. No pressure, or anything, but you still like girls, right?”

“Um, yes?”

Sherlock flips down the corner of his paper for half a second. Mary’s face tells him everything, and he’s not sure what he’s feeling, but he knows it isn’t good.

“Right. Well, here it is: you’re not going to be in love with Sherlock Holmes forever. Or maybe you already aren’t and all this is lingering emotion, or maybe you’re just confused or whatever, I don’t know—fact is, you’re going to get over him. It’s inevitable. And if it doesn’t take you too long, I’m just saying, I’ll be here.”

Quiet, then: “Mary?”

Sherlock can _hear_ her roll her eyes. “Oh, please, you know what I mean. And it’s fine, it’s not like I’m pining away like _some people_ I know.” A pause. “Okay, maybe too soon. I’m just saying, you know, that I am a bit attached to you. And I’m not going to sit around and wait for you or anything like that, just so you know, but yeah. If you are in a position where you feel like it might interest you, let me know.”

Despite the fact that his blood is on fire, Sherlock does not move. Every part of him is screaming that he ought to stand, stare at them both in the face, let them know that he can hear their every word, but he holds still. If he had any sort of clarity of mind, he’d be impressed by his impulse control.

“Oh my God, John, it’s not that big of a deal. I’m not declaring my undying love for you. You can stop making that face.”

What face is John making? Sherlock can’t guess.

“I’m just…surprised. But, I mean, I—I’m not stupid, Mary. I know it’s not typical to call anyone as much as I call you. And I’m not there yet, and we both know it, but…maybe? I need time.”

“You can have it.”

They chat idly for a few minutes. Their confessions have somehow made everything lighter, which seems completely backwards. Sherlock’s been staring at the last page of the paper for ten minutes when they finally stand up and John throws out his disposable cup. Neither of them notice him as they head out of the shop, side by side. When they’ve moved around the corner, Sherlock drops the paper to the table.

He’s never been so angry in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sureaintmebabe: who gave you the right for "he broke my heart"  
> me: i gave me the right  
> me: yay me!
> 
>  
> 
> HEY GUYS WHAT'S UP HOW ARE YOU HOW ARE YOUR LIVES I'VE MISSED YOU
> 
> PROBABLY I WILL HAVE SOME THINGS TO SAY ABOUT THIS STORY ON MY TUMBLR SO YOU SHOULD CHECK THAT OUT IF YOU'RE CURIOUS. ALL POSTS ARE TAGGED "THE THORNY PATH." WOOHOO!
> 
> OKAY BYE


	25. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Sherlock is a bit of a complete dick.

He gets back on the train to Cambridge. He check his phone once; there are no new messages from Mycroft, which means that his older brother, through some miracle or another, knows exactly what happened in the coffee shop.

It’s easier to concentrate all his anger on Mycroft, so for the duration of the ride, he allows himself to do just that.

\--

Oliver is not back when Sherlock walks in, which is a good thing, as he is still wearing that hideous jumper. He takes it off and throws it back into Oliver’s closet, not even bothering to cover his own tracks. The clock on the night stand table by his bed reminds him that he still has time to get to his afternoon class, but he just scowls and climbs under the covers of his bed.

The anger boiling in his veins is too hot for him to sleep, however. Every time he shuts his eyes and tries to void his mind, he fails. The only thing that he can hear is John’s voice as he whinged on about all the wrong done to him. _Sherlock_ had broken his heart, really? Who had rejected whom? Because John was the last one to close that door, not him.

It is outrageous and insulting, and what’s more, it hurts Sherlock in ways he’s never before experienced. 

He doesn’t want to hurt John. He has actively tried not to. He loves John—not in the way he did before, what with time and distance and Victor complicating things, but there isn’t any other word that Sherlock thinks applicable. The emotions aren’t entirely romantic, but they’re also not completely platonic. Certainly not fraternal. They are a whole uncharted thing unto themselves, and there aren’t words that Sherlock can call to mind that express them.

But he had tried, hadn’t he? He’d given John space and time and love and had them thrown back. Now, he’s made a concerted effort to move on and has been surprisingly successful. And just as he is on the cusp of finding happiness elsewhere— _that_ is when John chooses to regret everything?

How selfish. How fickle. Sherlock knows he’s being unfair in some distant quadrant of his brain, but he does not care.

He was the one who had his heart broken. He hadn’t even known he’d had a heart to break, before John.

His phone vibrates in his pants pocket, and Sherlock sighs unhappily as he rolls onto his back in order to dig it out.

_Hey, you still coming? You’re not outside._

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the time. He must have brooded his way through the entire afternoon and most of the evening, even though he can’t recall doing that. It feels like he fell into bed only a moment ago.

And _ugh_. The party.

_Would you be angry if I did not go? SH_

It’s pointless to attend. He won’t be any sort of company, not like this; he isn’t personable at the best of times, and these are certainly _not_ the best of times. He’ll be miserable, and he’ll make Victor miserable, and it’d be best for everyone involved if he just stayed in and moped.

The text comes through quickly. _Sort of? Not really, but it would have been nice if you’d said something before I drove over to get you._

He’s saying “sort of,” but he means “very.” Victor is chronically afraid of his own anger; he deflects and he downplays things because he doesn’t ever want to upset other people. It’s the reason why he cannot tell his father he’s gay, why he’s gone from holding Sherlock accountable for things to letting him run roughshod over his life. Compliance is easier than ever standing up for himself.

Suddenly, Sherlock does not want to see Victor. He also knows that unless he wants to deal with passive aggression for the next few days—or explain where he has been all day, but that won’t be happening—he needs to just suck it up and go.

He stands up and reaches into his closet for the first presentable enough shirt he can find. He buttons it quickly and steps into a pair of shoes, throwing on his coat before stepping into the hallway. His mobile is buzzing, but he ignores it. Thirty seconds later, he’s made it down the stairs and is walking outside to find a very frustrated Victor Trevor holding his mobile to his ear.

As soon as he spots Sherlock, he drops the phone to his side. “Why weren’t you answering?”

“I was on my way downstairs. It seemed pointless to tell you something you’d be experiencing in less than minute.” Sherlock brushes by him, already heading toward Victor’s car. “Coming?”

“Do you even want to go?” Victor asks. It’s part genuine question, part total frustration.

“No.” Without waiting for a reply, Sherlock opens the passenger’s door and slides in. Victor joins him a moment later, looking pained.

The words sound stiff in Victor’s mouth. “You don’t have to come, you know.”

Sherlock does not bother to reply. He puts his feet up on the dash and crosses his arms over his chest, directing his attention to the window. Beside him, Victor starts talking, but Sherlock does not even put a pretense of listening. It’s not that he doesn’t care about Victor’s first day of classes or whatever it is he is prattling on about—it’s just that he can’t imagine that anything coming from Victor can compare to what Sherlock heard John say.

Sherlock broke John’s heart. Ridiculous. Insulting. He ignores the aching part of himself that points out that it could very well be true.

After enduring a few minutes of silence, Victor goes blessedly quiet, opting instead to send furtive, worried looks in Sherlock’s direction. Hindsight being what it is, Sherlock suddenly wishes he’d thought to put up a better front so that he wouldn’t have to deal with all the painful expressions Victor sends his way.

They arrive at Darah’s, and Victor barely has the car in park before Sherlock hops out, walking around the car and onto the kerb. He waits for Victor to join him, but they continue with the silence between them.

How dare John do what he did, say what he said. Especially when he is so obviously falling for Mary—Mary with her stupid dyed blonde hair and her bubbly personality. Oh yes, John is surely pining away to nothing, knowing that _she’s_ just waiting around for him. He snorts at the thought, and it earns him a confused look from Victor as they walk up the drive to the front door.

Victor doesn’t even both knocking, just tries the doorknob. It turns in his hand, so he lets them both in. As they shuck their coats, he bites his lip and says, “Hey, could you…”

It takes more willpower than Sherlock cares to admit to not snap at Victor. “Could I what?”

“I don’t know.” Victor shrugs. “Cheer up, maybe? Put on a brave face or something. We’re just spending an evening with my friends, not enduring some form of torture.”

It shouldn’t be so annoying. After all, he hasn’t told Victor about what’s happened, so therefore he can’t be angry that Victor doesn’t understand. Sherlock is anyway. John is unfair, Victor is petty and demanding, and he should have stayed home.

He hangs his coat on the rack by the door and mutters, “Who’s to say they aren’t synonyms?”

He turns just in time to miss Victor’s affronted expression and begins to stalk off down the hall in the direction of the laughing voices he can hear. There are footsteps behind him, and Victor quickly joins him at his side.

The worst part of it is that he doesn’t even look angry. The irritation that was apparent when he’d picked Sherlock up at his housing has melted away, and now Victor just looks lost and deflated. Sherlock feels guilty and then feels irate and then feels entirely too much, in general.

Victor grabs his elbow, pulls him to a stop. He keeps his voice low and quiet. “I don’t know what’s going on. If I’ve made you angry, you need to tell me. I’m not you, William. I can’t look at you and know what I’ve done to upset you.”

There is no easy answer to this. He can hardly stand to look at Victor, but he’s not sure that has anything to do with Victor, himself. John’s words keep echoing around inside of him, and he can’t move past them. They take up all the space in his head, and he doesn’t have room left for pleasantries or politeness or Victor’s stupid friends. Maybe not even for Victor himself.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock manages. Judging by the way Victor’s eyebrows lift all the way to his hairline, it’s not his most convincing performance. He opens his mouth to concoct some sort of lie, but nothing comes to him.

“Just. Let’s go, okay? I’ll pop in and say food poisoning hit me on the way over, or something, and then we can leave.”

Disappointment is written in every line of Victor’s body. He wants to be here, and he’s willing to give it up for Sherlock, and Sherlock doesn’t want that, but there’s something comforting in the knowledge that Victor cares about him.

He wonders if Victor will ever accuse Sherlock of breaking his heart, too.

Something hot and unhappy rises up inside of Sherlock’s chest, and he fights it down. He doesn’t try to smile because he knows he won’t be able to make it convincing. Instead, he reaches for Victor’s hand and squeezes it briefly in his own.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, and he nearly means it. This isn’t Victor’s fault. “I’ve had a difficult day.”

Victor leans in and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s forehead. “What’s going on in there?”

 _Nothing you want to know about_ , Sherlock thinks, but he remains silent.

They walk down the rest of the hallway, into the room at the end. When they enter, everyone cheers, and a tiny brunette girl comes bouncing across the room to throw herself her arms around Victor’s neck. He obliges by picking her up and spinning her around.

“Finally! I thought you two were never going to get here!” Darah says as Victor sets her back down. She smiles wide at Sherlock. “Nice to see you again!”

Sherlock nods politely. He needs to make an effort, he knows, for Victor’s sake. “You too.”

The only two other faces Sherlock recognizes are Tom and Eric, the two friends he met the day all of them went to the movies. They both send him a smile and a wave from their places on the couch, which he returns. When he drops his hand, Victor grabs it in his.

He looks over at Victor, who is very deliberately not returning his gaze.

Starting from the left and working their way around the room, Victor drags him over to meet the rest of the party. Roger, James, Steve, Lily, Margaret, Timothy, Cathy. It’s a small affair, a get together more than anything. No loud music, no ridiculous dancing or drinking. Just a couple bottles of cheap wine shared between friends bemoaning the start of another term.

“This is Colleen,” Victor says, bringing Sherlock over to one of the last two people he has yet to meet. She is sitting on the floor, typing out a text message and casually talking to the girl next to her, who Victor introduces as Priya. “And you two, this is my boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes.”

Priya smiles brightly and extends her hand, which Sherlock dutifully shakes. When Colleen looks up from her mobile, however, she freezes. “Wait,” she says, “I know you.”

Sherlock runs through her face through his mind palace. “Ah, yes.”

His recognition does little to stop her from talking, which he finds disappointing. He’d barely interacted with her, just that once when he’d embarrassed that idiot in his literature course and upset her, and for the first time in his life, he wishes he hadn’t made such an impression.

She glares at him and blurts out, “You were in one of my classes last term. You made that Colin boy cry. Vicky, _this_ is the bloke you won’t stop talking about? I thought you said his name was William. God, if only I’d put all this together before!”

“What?” Victor asks.

“This kid, Colin. He was in a lit course I took last term—an intro course, but I needed the credits. Anyway, we were talking about this poem, I can’t remember which, and he gave some sort of stupid answer, and your boyfriend here tore him a new arsehole in front of the entire class. He left crying and never came back again.” Colleen sends Sherlock a disgusted look, like he is less than dirt. “It was some truly sociopathic shite.”

Victor turns to stare at him, confused, and something very strange hits Sherlock in his chest and goes quickly through his veins. It’s difficult for him to name, but he thinks it might be betrayal.

“I told you about that,” Sherlock says. His voice is even, and he isn’t sure how. “We laughed.”

Both Priya and Colleen stare at Victor, waiting for his response.

“I—I don’t remember, but…I mean, if you say…” He clears his throat and looks away from Sherlock’s eyes, suddenly unable to meet them. He shrugs at Colleen. “Col, please. I don’t know what—just, fresh start, okay? Could you give him a chance? I promise he’ll grow on you, really.”

The girls are underwhelmed by Victor’s reasoning, and Sherlock decides that he does not want to grow on any of these people. He removes his hand from Victor’s, says a chilly “excuse me,” and heads over to the table of drinks on the opposite side of the room.

He’s only just started to pour himself of whatever wine is closest to his hand when Victor’s at his side, eyes big and apologetic. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock fills the glass nearly to the brim and then downs most of it. He refills it again.

“Sherlock. _William_. I’m just…I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was going to be like that. I mean.” He stumbles over his words, and it is not as charming as usual. “I kind of remember, now, what you were talking about. It was that night we met, right? It doesn’t matter what she says, I don’t care. I’ll go tell her off now if you want me to.”

The wine is cheap and a bit too warm. Sherlock raises the glass to his lips and, in contrast to his previous actions, takes a delicate sip. He pretends to consider the flavour, swishing it in his mouth for a second before swallowing. He spares a quick glance at Victor’s pleading face. “Do what you want. It hardly matters to me.”

He steps away, moving to sit near Tom and Eric, who did not hear the conversation on the other side of the room and who are oblivious to all the reasons they should hate Sherlock.

First he’s a heartbreaker, now he’s a sociopath. This has been a brilliant day to be Sherlock Holmes.

Tom asks him about his first day of classes, and Sherlock gives a bland, non-committal answer about syllabi that gets Tom and Eric talking. It’s perfect, as they then avoid engaging him in their conversation. Victor, thankfully, had enough sense not to follow him when he had walked away and instead went to sit with Darah. He shoots Sherlock wounded, sorry looks at every opportunity. Sherlock fiddles with his mobile for an excuse not to acknowledge them.

A text pops up on his screen. _Please forgive me. They caught me off guard and I froze._

Sherlock rolls his eyes and deletes the text.

It’s not that no one has ever said things like this about him before. Prior to befriending John, he’d been used to the barbed words of his peers, who saw his deductions not as fact but as cruelty. They had never seemed to understand that it was not Sherlock’s fault that the truth was rarely kind.

Had Colleen said these things on any other day, he thinks he could have shrugged it off easily. But today, he’s had enough false accusations laid at his doorstep, and he is tired and angry and John thought Sherlock knew that “we should break up” meant “we should secretly wait for each other for the next four years,” and Victor hadn’t defended him against his awful friends, and truly, everything is shit.

His mobile buzzes again. _I’m so sorry. Please._

Sherlock grips the stem of the wine glass too tightly and lifts his head, but Victor isn’t looking at him. He’s pressed his forehead into Darah’s shoulder, and she’s staring down at him. As Sherlock watches, she lifts a hand and runs it delicately through Victor’s curls, looping one under his ear and delicately touching his jaw.

Her expression is so soft, so reverent; Sherlock suddenly remembers her confession.

It’s so obvious that her crush is still painfully present. She keeps her fingertips pressed to Victor’s jaw like all she wants to do is push up his head so that she can touch her lips to his, and suddenly she is not Darah at all; she’s a bit taller and louder and much more blonde, and something inside of Sherlock snaps.

“Oh, Darah. Really?” he says, letting his voice go a bit louder than necessary. The conversations around the room halt as everyone pauses to look at him. Even Victor moves away from her shoulder, his expression foggy and without understanding.

Darah pales, drops her hand. “Sherlock—“

“No, no. Don’t let me stop you. Go ahead, keep touching him. It’s only that it’s a bit pathetic, don’t you think? Continuing to pine for a gay man months after he’s come out to you?” He watches Victor’s head swing from him to Darah and back again. “You’re even wearing that shirt he bought you, the very same one from before. You don’t even like that shirt—remember the bleach stains I told you about? You’ve been very thoughtless with it. You don’t care for it one bit, but you wear it because _he_ bought it for you.”

Darah’s hands are shaking in her lap. She can’t seem to tear her eyes away from him. They’re slowly filling with tears, but now that he’s begun, Sherlock can’t seem to stop the pour of vitriol from his mouth. Deep down, he’s not sure he would, even if he could.

“Do you think if you keep putting it on, one day he’ll love you? Do you hope, deep down in the bottom of your little heart, that this is a phase, and that soon he’ll be _normal_ again? I bet you always wondered why he looked at other girls, but not at you. Never knew about the folder full of gay porn on his laptop, did you? But don’t worry, I’m sure if I hadn’t come along, you’d have been his very next beard. Hell, he may have even had sex with you. He certainly did with all the others.”

He’s gone too far. He crossed the line the moment he opened his mouth, but now he’s so far past it, he’s not sure he’ll ever get back to the original side. Every person’s face is a mix of shock and outrage.

He doesn’t dare look at Victor.

Standing, he puts his half-full glass on the table behind him. He nods at her. “Well, think I’ll get going. Great party. Thank you for the invitation.”

He’s out of the room, down the hallway, and through the front door before anyone can react.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, if you are curious as to what's been going on in my life and how it's affected my writing this story, I wrote a tumblr post that you can read here. If you don't want to read it, no big deal. Here's the short version: I was feeling pretty awful. I still feel kind of awful, but it's getting better, and that is thoroughly yay-worthy.
> 
> Also, how do we feel about updates every other week? I feel pretty good about them.
> 
> Also also, I re-read most of this story earlier today, and wtf, why do any of you read this? It's, like, really sad.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think!


	26. Chapter 25

The front door opens and closes behind him, and that’s good because Sherlock is not overly interested in walking all the way back to his housing. He turns to ask Victor for a lift and is taken aback by what he sees: Victor’s face is cherry red, clashing horrible with his hair, and his shoulders are so high and tense they look as though they’re growing out of his ears. His hands are balled into fists at his sides.

“So you’re angry, then,” Sherlock says, affecting calm. He schools his face into something he hopes is neutral.

Victor’s mouth drops open in surprise, and then suddenly he is right in front of Sherlock, his hand flapping in Sherlock’s face. “You fucking _think_? Jesus, Sherlock!” He takes a shaky breath and runs his hand through his hair. “You need to get back in there and apologize.”

Sherlock frowns. “Why?”

In hindsight, it’s not the best thing to say.

Sherlock isn’t stupid; he knows that he just showed a stunning lack of empathy for someone else’s feelings, that he humiliated Victor’s dearest friend, and that he did it all because he has had an awful day. He also knows that it was wrong, and that he’ll probably feel rather poor about it later. At the moment, though, he keeps seeing Darah touching Victor, her face sad with a kind of longing, and he remembers Mary telling John that she’s there, when he’s ready, and he is generally not feeling very charitable toward women.

Still, as soon as the “why?” has left his mouth, he wishes he could take it back, if only because the look on Victor’s face is not worth the buzz of satisfaction he gets from saying it.

“Why?” Victor is pale and his eyes are strangely bright. His adam’s apple bobs up and down in his throat as he swallows. “Did you just ask me _why_? Because, you arsehole, you made someone cry. My friend! You made her cry, and all over something she can’t help!”

The lack of disbelief, his total and easy acceptance of everything Sherlock pointed out—as much as Sherlock hates to admit it, he completely missed that Victor knew. He was aware of how Darah felt for him. 

He manages to keep his reaction down to a surprised blink. “How long have you known she felt that way about you?”

“God, what does it matter? Forever! I didn’t say anything because she’s my friend and I didn’t want to hurt her. Unlike you, I’m not a fucking automaton, or whatever you are.” Victor freezes, then adds, “I didn’t mean that. I know you’re not a robot.”

It’s the same thing he’s been told a hundred times in the past, but for some reason, hearing those words from Victor makes them sting worse. He manages not to flinch, but he does look away.

“She was touching you,” he grits out. It’s difficult to get his mouth around the words, to admit this kind of weakness to Victor.

“That’s not an excuse and you know it. You want to act like a tit, then alright, that’s your choice, but no one’s making you do it, so don’t give me that shite.”

Sherlock dares to catch Victor’s eye again and regrets it immediately. Victor is staring at him with a look of shock and disappointment and fury and just like his words—like him calling Sherlock a robot—it hurts worse than Sherlock expects. It is not the first time he’s been on the receiving end of that particular combination of emotions, but this isn’t one of his idiot classmates, or his awful parents, or any of the multitudes of morons Sherlock has dealt with in the past. This is _Victor_. One of the things Sherlock likes best about Victor is that, from day one, he’s treated Sherlock as if he is one constant amazement after another. He’s not accustomed to having Victor see him just like everyone else in this stupid, miserable world does.

He doesn’t like it.

“I want to go home,” Sherlock says. He’s not sure that’s what he meant to say, but it’s what comes out.

Victor scoffs. “Well, isn’t that just perfect! Let me run right over and start my car for you, shall I? Fucking walk, or call a cab or—God, I can’t even look at you right now.” He shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You can’t treat people like that, you know? Darah’s never been anything but kind to you, and you went and bollocksed up my friendship with her because, what, you were jealous? Jesus, Sherlock. I’m _gay_. It’s not like she was going to be able to steal me away!”

But that’s not the point, and as usual, Victor is too thick to see that. “I don’t care about Darah! It’s not about her or her stupid, irrational feelings!”

“Then what _is_ it about, Sherlock, because I’m not a mind reader, and I’m not some big, impressive…” He flails his hands in front of himself uselessly. “…deductions expert, so you’re going to have break things down for me.”

Some part of Sherlock has enough foresight to realize that he can’t tell Victor what’s happening because if he does, he’ll have to admit what he did today. That he went to London and followed John and got what he thought was a nearly-closed wound suddenly and terribly re-opened, and that he feels like everything inside him is seeping out, and he’s a mess, he’s such a mess. How can he be that vulnerable when Victor is looking at him like he’s the freak everyone else has always believed him to be?

“I told you I didn’t want to come. If you hadn’t _made_ me—“

“I didn’t make you do anything! I offered to get us out of there a hundred times, and you were the one who insisted—“

“Oh, _please_. Anyone with half a brain could have seen that I was lying my arse off, but then I guess that’s significantly more intellect than you possess, so—“

Across the street, a door bangs open, and a balding, overweight man leans out. “Hey, you two poofters! Shut the fuck up before I call the coppers on your little domestic!”

“Go fuck yourself!” Victor yells back. He glares at Sherlock and fishes his keys out of his pocket, pointing at his car down the street. “Get in the car, Sherlock. Let’s continue this in private.”

“Ah, yes. Very private, your car. Soundproof and everything.”

Victor does not dignify that with any sort of verbal response. He flips Sherlock off and then stalks down the pavement and unlocks his car, slamming his door closed with all his strength. Sherlock considers refusing to move, or walking right past him, but he doesn’t. He gets in the passenger’s side and puts his feet up on the dash, crossing his arms over his middle.

Now that he’s off the street, Victor seems to deflate. His anger is still there, simmering in every inch of his body, but there’s also a sense of exhaustion there, in the way he sinks back into the seat, his head pressed into the rest behind it. Victor’s eyes are wide and honest and hurt and angry, and Sherlock curls away from his gaze.

“I just…don’t know what,” Victor pauses and makes a low, angry noise in his throat. “What you want, or—need, or.” He slams a hand against the steering wheel and then brings it up to tear at his hair. Sherlock doesn’t even flinch. “And I don’t know why you acted like that, and, just. _God_ , Sherlock, if you don’t apologize, I don’t know how I’ll ever forgive you.”

It isn’t fair, Sherlock thinks, for Victor to leverage his forgiveness like this, and it hurts something so deep inside him that for a moment he thinks: _who wants to be forgiven, anyway_?

Because it’s changed now. Victor’s seen him like this, has seen him at his worst, and there’s no way that Victor will ever look at him like he did before—like he’s the sun, and the world rotates around him. There’s no way to erase the memory in Victor’s brain of what Sherlock did to Darah, and now Victor will always carry with him the knowledge that Sherlock is, deep down, vicious and cold and cruel. How can anyone (besides John, and oh _God_ , Sherlock wishes he didn’t just think that) really let that go, _really_? Sherlock can’t outsmart this, can’t be cleverer than this, and the pressure in his chest in growing and growing so that the knowledge fills him with a physical pain.

Victor starts the car. Sherlock glances over out of the corner of his eye and catches Victor slumped forward into the steering wheel before taking a deep breath, collecting himself, and sitting up.

“I’ll take you home,” Victor says, his voice raw.

Sherlock says nothing, and they pull out into the road, taking the familiar streets back toward his university housing. Victor hangs a right and ends up at a red light. It lasts and lasts, even without cross traffic, and Victor fidgets in the silence.

He breaks first. “Don’t you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Like what?” Sherlock asks, his voice dull.

“Like—sorry that I humiliated your friend, Victor? Sorry for being such a dick? Sorry for—I don’t know.” Victor sighs his whole body involved, and then adds, sounding sadder, more defeated, “You could tell me whatever it is that got you so upset?”

The light turns green, and Sherlock realizes that yes, yes he could do that.

“I didn’t go to classes today,” he says, his voice utterly flat as the car crawls forward.

Victor looks over at him before turning his attention back to the street. “Okay? Well, um. What did you do, then?”

“I went to London.”

The effect of his words is instantaneous. All of Victor’s muscles go rigid, his knuckles turn white around the steering wheel. Sherlock watches the tendons in Victor’s neck stick out with a sort of sick fascination.

He knows what he’s doing, and yet it almost feels, to Sherlock, like he is out of his body, watching all of this happen from afar. The words coming out of his mouth are his, he is the one forming them, and yet he can’t be because he’s not even there. He’s somewhere else entirely.

Everything’s ruined anyway, so there’s no point in pretending.

“When I was at John’s this weekend, I found out that he had planned a coffee date with a friend of his. A girl. Her name is Mary, and she and John have grown closer in the past few months, and I’ve been so horribly jealous.” He lets out an affected laugh and does not look at Victor. “That’s why I was a prick when you picked me up. It was because I knew he’d see her soon, and I was afraid they’d get even closer. Romantically close.”

Victor lets out a tiny, strangled sound, but the words just won’t stop coming.

“I woke up this morning and thought, fuck it, I know where they’ll be going, what time they’ll be meeting. Why not sate my curiosity, once and for all? So I lied to you, and I skipped my classes, and I took the train. I hid in the corner behind a paper. They never even knew I was there.”

“Sherlock. Stop.”

But he doesn’t.

“And I listened to John tell her all about how he’d thought I’d wait for him, even when he’d told me I shouldn’t, and how I’d broken his heart, and I was _angry_ about it. Because, you know, I think I would have, if he’d told me to, but he didn’t tell me to, and I couldn’t see him, couldn’t deduce, so how was I supposed to know? And I thought I couldn’t be more furious, but I was wrong because then Mary told him that if he ever wanted to move on, she would be interested.”

They stop too quickly at an intersection, and Sherlock looks up at Victor’s face. Victor is pale, staring straight ahead at the road. There is something on his cheek—a tear. Sherlock has made Victor cry, and he doesn’t feel good about it, but he doesn’t feel bad about it, either, because right now, he feels very little at all.

“You’re crying,” Sherlock says.

Victor wipes hastily at his face. “I’m not.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“So, you were angry with John and Mary, and what? You realized you were still in love with him and decided to come back to Cambridge and—go to a party with me, and humiliate my friend?” Victor’s voice goes higher, more hysterical. “Jesus, Sherlock. You weren’t even going to tell me, were you?”

Sherlock shrugs. “I tried to avoid the party.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. You should have—I thought that you were getting over him, that we were going to be…” Someone behinds them honks at Victor for lingering at the stop sign and he slams on the gas, the car jolting forward. He scrubs at his cheek again. “You should have told me you went to London.”

“I’m telling you now.”

“Yes, but you—you can’t just do this to people! You can’t toy with me while you pine away for him, it isn’t _fair_!”

Sherlock breathes out heavily. “You knew from the beginning that I still had feelings for John. You said we would work through it. Don’t pretend that I blindsided you with this.”

They fall back into silence as the housing comes up on the corner. Victor pulls the car over to the side of the road and shuts it off. They sit side-by-side, staring in opposite directions.

“You’re right,” Victor says, the words cracking. “I knew he was your priority, and I…can see now, that it was naïve of me to hope that I could—well, it doesn’t matter.”

It does matter, though, and it matters to Sherlock, but he doesn’t know how to say that, not now when Victor’s seen every bit of his worst parts and has been understandably disappointed by them. Sherlock’s used to disappointing people, but part of him had wanted to believe that Victor could have been some sort of exception.

But how is he supposed to reach out to another person and tell them those sorts of things? The only person who has ever successfully understood Sherlock is John, and he remembers how that ended up—with pain, and heartache, and the still large break in their friendship that he’s starting to worry may actually be permanent. How can anyone be expected to really try again when that pain is still such a fresh memory?

There isn’t anything to say, and as he watches Victor try and fail to fight against his tears, Sherlock realises that he ought to go, and inside his chest, his heart breaks with a depth and ferocity that he never would have guessed.

He flinches against the weight of his own emotions and is suddenly surprised to find that if he let himself, he could cry. He swallows against the burning lump in his throat. “Victor…”

There’s something his tone—he can hear it. It’s a kind of fragility that, prior to this moment, Sherlock isn’t sure he knew he was capable of feeling.

In response, Victor’s head snaps up. Whatever he sees in Sherlock’s face makes him reach out a hand. He whispers, “William…?”

Sherlock shuts his eyes and breathes in sharply as he gropes for the door handle and lets himself out into the street. He practically runs up the path to the door, fumbling his key card, and pounds up the stairs to his hallway.

Everything is wrong, in a way that Sherlock can’t describe, and he barely even registers the sock on his doorknob, grabbing it and throwing it across the hall before shoves his key into the lock. He struggles to remember how to breathe as the door swings open and he steps inside, slamming it behind him.

There’s a strange smacking sound, and then: “Oi, did you not see the signal?”

Of course, this is the worst day of Sherlock’s life, so he should have known that fat, stupid Oliver would be back. His idiot roommate is half naked and practically smothering to death the girl beneath him as they both stare at him with shocked, embarrassed faces.

“Get out,” Sherlock says.

“What?” Oliver goes red-faced and sits up, fumbling to reach for the shirt on the end of his bed. The girl is still wearing hers. “You can’t just—waltz in here and expect me to just _leave_ because—“

Sherlock turns and punches the wall by the door. “I don’t care! Get. The. Fuck. Out! Now!”

Oliver and his girlfriend right their clothes and then scurry out the door, not daring to speak again, even though they both give him a murderous glance on the way out. It doesn’t matter; what’s another two people that hate him?

Once they’re gone, Sherlock leans his back against the door and slowly sinks down to the floor. He sits there until his arse goes numb, staring dumbly at his room. It looks just the same as it did when he dressed to go to the party less than two hours ago, and it’s strange, the way it has stayed the way it was when everything else has changed.

He breathes in and out, in and out, somewhere caught between blind panic and a horrible, startling calm.

He wants to ask himself: _why, why did you do it? Why tell him, why say those things?_ The truth is, however, that deep down, he knows. He knows that he ruined it now so that he wouldn’t do it worse later, when he might have been more invested. Because Victor is—was, maybe—under his skin in a way few people ever have been, and he wouldn’t have resisted letting him in forever, and well, that’s a terrifying thought. Especially since the last person he let in there broke his heart.

Why did he follow John, he wonders. What was he hoping to accomplish? He’d wanted to know, he’d been curious—but Sherlock knows John. Sherlock could have asked him, and John would have answered honestly. There was nothing good about going to London, nothing productive, and Sherlock had done it anyway because— _why_? Because he could? Because John was starting to show signs of moving forward?

Because they hadn’t talked—really talked—in months, and he misses that feeling of being close to John?

Without thinking, Sherlock reaches into his pocket and gets out his mobile. He makes no conscious decision to type in John’s number and hit the call button. Suddenly, the phone is just there, pressed against his ear, and John is on the other end of the line, sounding sleepy and asking, “Hello?”

“John?” Sherlock croaks. He sounds awful, he thinks distantly.

“Sherlock? Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

There aren’t enough words to explain that over the phone. Instead, Sherlock says, “I think I messed it up.”

“Messed what up?” John sounds alert now, and on edge. “Are you hurt? What’s wrong? Do you need help?”

Is he hurt? _Yes_ , Sherlock muses, _I am_. What’s wrong? There’s too much to tell, and John would never forgive him if he said. Does he need help?

Despite the fact that admitting it makes Sherlock’s skin crawl, the answer is yes.

“Can you come here?” Sherlock asks, desperate and strange in his own ears.

“To Cambridge? Now? I mean—Sherlock, it’s past ten.” There’s a pause, and then. “Yeah, alright. I’ll—just let me grab a cab, and I’ll call you when I’m there, okay? Will you be alright until then?”

 _No_ , he thinks. He says, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.


	27. Chapter 26

Sherlock has barely ended his call with John when his mobile buzzes with a text message. His heartbeat picks up as he glances at the screen, caught somewhere between hoping that it is Victor and hoping that it is anyone but Victor.

It’s John asking for his address. Something inside of Sherlock’s chest tightens, and he isn’t sure if it’s guilt or relief and disappointment, but whatever it is, it doesn’t feel _good_. He quickly composes a reply and sends it, then turns his mobile on silent so that he won’t hear it if John says anything in return.

Assuming that John’s cab arrives quickly—and that there are no delays at the train station, and that he does not struggle finding Sherlock’s housing Cambridge—then he will arrive in under two hours. Nothing ever works out quite as smoothly as one would hope, however, so Sherlock reasons that John will be here in at nearly half past midnight.

He doesn’t know how to fill that time, and he can’t _not_ fill it because—because then he’ll have to think about everything that’s happened tonight, and he doesn’t want to.

Sherlock has never felt so repulsed by the idea of _thinking_ before.

The things he said to Victor in the car, the way he _acted_. They may not have officially declared an end to their relationship, but there is no way that Victor will ever forgive Sherlock. And maybe Victor shouldn’t—Sherlock had convinced himself that he could be normal enough for everything, for Victor, but he should have known better.

He wants something, but there aren’t words for what it is—or, if there are, Sherlock does not know them. But there’s an ache that seems to be connected from his chest to his gut, and it yearns for some unknown _thing_ so much that it’s a physical pain. Sherlock curls in around himself, forehead to knees, but it does nothing to relieve the feeling. He needs—

He doesn’t know what he needs.

It isn’t Victor, and now that he knows John is on his way, Sherlock almost wishes that he hadn’t asked him to come because he’s fairly certain John isn’t it, either. It’s definitely not Mycroft, and it may not even be a person at all. Nothing makes sense; there is a hole in his chest that is seeping blood everywhere, and he has no idea what will stopper it.

Some masochistic part of himself urges him to flip over his mobile and check the screen. He has several texts from John, all within varying degrees of panic, asking if he is okay. Nothing from Victor. Nothing from his brother, either, which is a bit of a surprise—surely Mycroft knows, because Mycroft knows everything, but how he has resisted sending Sherlock some kind of triumphant, mocking message is beyond Sherlock’s comprehension.

There is no one else who would reach out to him, he realises. He’s alone. He’s more alone that he’s been since before he met John.

His eyes burn, and Sherlock knows that if he wanted to, if he let himself, he could cry. The thought of that kind of weakness disgusts him, and he frown and straightens himself. Excess displays of emotions will not fix anything, will not make what he did tonight any better, will not bring Victor back or make Mary Morstan disappear. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, repeats the motion until he feels calmer—or perhaps that is the wrong word. Perhaps what he is, is numb.

Either way, at least he isn’t doing something stupid like crying.

After a half hour, Sherlock’s arse falls asleep, and he stands up, making sure his door is locked so that if Oliver tries to get in, he’ll have some warning. He walks stiffly to his bed and curls up in the duvet, dry-eyed and distant, only just remembering to turn his mobile’s ringer back on so that he’ll know if John calls him when he arrives.

Even though he usually abhors sleep—waste of time, he thinks—it finds him within minutes.

\--

Sherlock does not stir until there are several rapid knocks on his door. He jolts into wakefulness instantly. It must be John—the only other option is Oliver, and he has a key. Even if he had lost it, he’d be bellowing for Sherlock’s attention, not silently waiting for Sherlock to open the door. Someone must have been heading out as John was trying to get in, and he’d been able to slip past the key card reader. The knocking becomes a bit more frantic, and Sherlock unearths himself from the blanket, moving across the room.

When he swings his door open, John is still standing with his hand poised in mid-air. He drops it to his side, embarrassed. “I texted you, but I didn’t hear anything. I was concerned.”

Sherlock blinks. His text tone usually wakes him. “I fell asleep.”

John ignores that, grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders and pushing him deeper inside the room. The door stands ajar behind them. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

“What?” Sherlock shakes off John’s hands and moves to the door, closing it and locking it. He grabs the chair by his desk and shoves it under the handle, for good measure. After the day he has had, he is no mood to put up with stupid Oliver.

“I thought you were dying or something. Jesus. You’re okay?” At Sherlock’s nod, John takes a step back and surveys Sherlock up and down. Despite the fact that Sherlock knows that John is rather an idiot and cannot actually _see_ anything, he feels unnerved under the weight of John’s stare. “You don’t look hurt.”

“I’m not hurt.” It’s not a lie; he still feels the numb nothingness, cold in the pit of his stomach. “I’m fine.”

A crease forms in between John’s eyebrows; it’s not the frustration that Sherlock would have expected from someone who travelled for two hours under the impression that there was an emergency only to find nothing wrong. Instead, he looks confused. “You didn’t sound fine on the phone.”

Gaze on the floor, Sherlock shrugs. “I shouldn’t have called you.”

“No,” John says, “I definitely think you should have. I’m glad you did.”

He takes a step toward Sherlock, who in turn moves back. They both pause and stare for a moment. Sherlock doesn’t know why he reacted like that; touch has never been the most important part of his relationship with John, but he’s never shrunk away from John before, either. A glance at John’s face confirms that John is surprised, as well, but that he’s trying to cover it up. He’s doing a poor job, but it’s nice of him to try.

“Okay,” John says. “Right.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock replies. He doesn’t know why he’s apologizing, or for what, but the word spills out before he can stop it.

John shakes his head. “Don’t be.”

Neither of them says anything for a long moment. Eventually, John clears his throat and asks, “So, did you want to—talk? About whatever it is that upset you, I mean.”

“No.”

It’s not exactly the truth, but it’s not a lie, either. Sherlock can feel the events of the day expanding inside him like a balloon, and he feels as if its near to popping and exploding out of him, but it suddenly occurs to him that even if he wanted to tell John (and he isn’t sure he does), he should not. Because how can he explain what happened with Victor without explaining where he was earlier that day, what he saw, what he heard?

Sherlock’s stomach roils, and he remembers something that he’s nearly forgotten in all of the drama of his evening with Victor: he is angry with John.

John made assumptions about their relationship that he never bothered to share with Sherlock. John thinks Sherlock broke his heart.

It doesn’t infuriate him the way it did earlier, still too numb to properly sort out the emotions, but Sherlock feels the phantom pangs of that anger. He stares at his feet. “Maybe you ought to go.”

“Nope,” John tells him, popping the ‘p.’ “Look, we can stand here in silence, if that’s what you want. I don’t mind being here for you in whatever way works best, but I’m not going to just—leave, not when I know that you called me for a reason.” He pauses, then adds, “Also, I do not fancy another trip back to London after being here for five minutes. Do you want to sit down?”

Huffing, Sherlock stalks across the room and sits himself on his bed. John joins him a moment later, a few feet between them. 

“Alright. So. What did you mess up?” John asks. 

It is not what Sherlock wants to hear. He messed things up with Victor—viciously, purposefully—but he did it because of John, because of what John said to Mary. The more John speaks, the less numb Sherlock feels, and he’s not convinced that is a good thing.

When he notices Sherlock’s glare, John smiles—tight-lipped and small, but still genuine. “Right, see, I’m not going to pretend you didn’t call me in the midst of a panic attack. And you can tell me to drop it, and I probably will, but I just—I can’t walk away from you without knowing you’re going to be alright.”

Sherlock brings his legs up onto the bed and wraps his arms around his shins. Part of him wants to tell John, and the other part of him wants to tell John to fuck off. But if he knows anything, he knows that John can be persistent at the most inconvenient times, so he decides to give—just a little.

“Victor and I broke up,” he mutters, more to his knees than to John himself.

John says nothing, and when Sherlock glances to his left, he’s surprised by John’s—well, surprise.

“Really? But you and he seemed so…” There must be something about Sherlock’s face that discourages John from continuing on, as he lets his voice trail off and then coughs uncomfortably. “I just wouldn’t have expected that, considering what I saw from you guys this weekend. Are you okay?” Sherlock says nothing. “Right. Stupid question.”

Sherlock turns his head so that he ear is pressed against the top of his knees, and he observes John. John looks normal; his face is contorted into the perfect expression of concern, but he doesn’t seem—relieved or pleased or any of the things that someone who is apparently pining for someone else should be. What’s more, Sherlock isn’t sure how he feels about that; he is frustrated with John for setting expectations that he never let Sherlock know he needed to meet, but he also frustrated because he’s not even sure he would have even wanted to meet them, if he had had the opportunity.

Before Victor, maybe. Definitely, if he’s feeling honest. But after? It’s difficult to say.

Still, it hurts—it more than hurts, it makes him _angry_ \--that even now, John still won’t just say what is on his mind. He will spill his guts to _Mary Morstan_ in the middle of a public space, but here and now, in the safety of Sherlock’s bedroom, he won’t open up, won’t admit the things that Sherlock now knows.

“I’m really sorry, Sherlock,” John says. The worst part of it is that he’s being honest. “I mean, I barely knew him, but I know that you really liked him.”

Sherlock says nothing, just continues to watch John’s face for any sense of hesitation or conflict; there aren’t any to be seen. He’s so painfully earnest, and Sherlock wishes he could hate him a bit, even if he is also glad that he can’t.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Sherlock lifts his head in order to shake it and then puts it right back where it was. The moment stretches longer and longer, eye contact becoming a strained chore of a thing, and then John breaks. He reaches out and puts a hand on Sherlock’s neck.

His fingers squeeze lightly and then his thumb curves over the side, brushing a tender line from just below Sherlock’s ear to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The touch is so light, so loving, and Sherlock wants to lean into it. That gaping wound in his chest aches in a way that feels productive, healing—and yet, he feels like it starts to bleed anew at the edges.

It feels like the gesture Sherlock was looking for, and now that it is here, Sherlock finds it makes him want to scream. John lost his right to this kind of comfort when he decided that the pair of them were better off separated, and he has not earned it back by accusing Sherlock of breaking his heart as he moves on toward some obnoxious blonde girl—

Why did he ever try to love anyone, Sherlock wonders.

He rolls his shoulder, dislodging John’s hand, and bites out, “Don’t touch me.”

John flinches away, contrite. “Right, sorry. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—“

“Oh, I’m sure you’re very sorry.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and ignores the hurt look on John’s face. “You’re sorry that Victor and I broke up, are you? Tell me, does it change anything between the two of us?”

“The two of _us_ \--like, me and you?” John sounds lost, small. “Why would it? What are you talking about?”

“It’s just that if I’m supposed to spend the next four years pining away for you, I’d like you to let me know now, rather than assume that I understand,” Sherlock spits. He watches the confusion crawl over John’s face, the twist of his lip and his furrowed brow. “Although, I’m not sure where that would leave Mary. Unless the whole waiting thing is only on my end, which leaves you free to do what you please.”

He’s said too much, and he knows it, but that’s been his modus operandi all day long, and at this point, what is one more ruined relationship? Mycroft was right, all those months ago, when he told Sherlock that caring is not an advantage.

Tonight, Victor saw the worst of him and then turned away. John’s no different—no, he is worse. He expects more of Sherlock than anyone else ever has, and when he realises that Sherlock cannot match those expectations, he will leave Sherlock alone. Sherlock’s not been truly alone for a long time, now, and he does not relish the thought of being that way again, but he would rather get it over with than let himself cling to this friendship that is inevitably going to end.

Nothing matters anymore, and he’s angry, and John should have left when Sherlock told him to the first time.

That doesn’t make the horrified look on John’s face any easier to swallow. He’s staring, eyes wide and round and mouth working soundlessly.

Finally he croaks out, “What the fuck?”

Sherlock doesn’t want to say the words, and he doesn’t know why. “You heard me.”

“I don’t know—I mean, what are you talking,” John stumbles over each word, verbally tripping his way through his sentence. “I never expected you to _pine_.”

“Fuck you,” Sherlock says, anger flaring hot in that hole in the chest. It doesn’t close it, but at least it’s not the same kind of pain; somehow, in this moment, that is enough. “I heard you, so don’t lie to me”

John’s face goes suddenly red, and the irritation helps him find his tongue. “First of all, what the fuck are you talking about? Second, I don’t know what you think you heard—“

“I heard everything you said to Mary this morning.”

John holds Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock does not look away. After a moment, John sucks in a deep breath. “Were you behind the paper?”

He can’t lie, not now. Not when he’s given away so much. Not when John knows.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. His voice is completely even.

“Jesus.” John exhales through his nose and shuts his eyes. “You can’t—that’s not right, you know? That’s so fucking not right. I am allowed to have a little privacy from you!”

Sherlock says nothing. He hugs his legs tighter to his chest like it will do something to stop the implosion happening inside of him. In the wake of Sherlock’s silence, John stands. He walks toward the door, strong and purposeful, but hovers in front of it instead of storming out. With a frustrated groan, he whirls around and points an accusatory finger in Sherlock’s direction.

“You weren’t supposed to hear what I said. Those weren’t things I wanted you to know, and—God, do you know how hard it is to keep something from _Sherlock bleeding Holmes_? I never once told her that what I’ve been feeling is fair or, or _right_ , just that I felt it. I can’t help if my every emotion is less than completely just. Didn’t you stop to think that maybe that’s why I kept it from you?” John scoffs, crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I’m just—you fucking followed me, Sherlock, do you even realise how creepy that is?”

Before this moment, Sherlock hadn’t. He says nothing, and his face does not change, but John is John, and he knows Sherlock—he knows what the lack of reaction means, and it makes him cough out an unpleasant, rough-sounding laugh.

“Of course you didn’t realise. Because you just want to know things, and you don’t care whose privacy you trod on, or whose feelings you disregard, just so long as you—“

“Oh, it’s _your_ feelings you’re worried about?” Sherlock hates that he’s speaking, but he can’t seem to stop his tongue. “Yes, John, explain to me how you’re the wronged party in this situation. Tell me again how I broke your heart when, as I remember it, I was at dinner at your parents’ house and you called me—“

“That is _not_ what we’re talking about here—“

“ _And you ended it_! I would have waited, you arsehole! Of course I would have waited!” The words are too loud in the sudden quiet of the room, and Sherlock softens. “I would have waited.”

John bites his lip so hard it go white around the edges of his teeth. “And I was an idiot not to see that, alright, I know, but—that’s not really what I’m upset about here. Or, well, it is, but it’s not…” He rubs at his brow. “Sherlock, you followed me and listened to my private conversation.”

“You spent our whole morning together texting her.”

The answer makes John blink rapidly, but he recovers quickly. “What? You mean this weekend? No, I didn’t.”

“You did.” What’s one more admitted sin, now? “I stole your mobile and checked.”

Rolling his eyes, John mutters, “I knew I should have changed the pass code.” He crosses back to Sherlock’s bed and sits down again, closer this time. “Alright, so I texted Mary a lot. I’m just not seeing how that justifies you following me.”

It doesn’t, so Sherlock shrugs. He plays with the leg of his trousers, bunching it and releasing it in his hand. “I was not trying to say that it did. I don’t have a justification.”

“Right, then—I don’t understand why you did it.”

Sherlock sighs, weary. “Honestly, John. It’s not rocket science.” When John continues to stare blankly, he adds, “I was jealous of your date.”

John looks away. “It wasn’t a—“

“Don’t lie to me. It won’t work.”

“I don’t understand why it matters to you. You have Victor, and—“ John stops, his face frozen in shock as the pieces come together. He turns his gaping expression toward Sherlock. “Oh my God. Victor found out that you followed me, didn’t he? That’s what happened! That’s why you broke up!”

Sherlock nods, his cheek rubbing against the fabric of his trousers. The friction burns. “I told him.”

“ _Why_?”

That is the last thing Sherlock would have thought John would ask, and for a moment, he doesn’t know how to answer. He squeezes his eyes shut tight. “We went to a party, and his friend Darah was there, and she kept—touching him. And she’s in love with him, and he _knew_ , I didn’t realise he knew but he did, and I…” The words are all coming to him too quickly, too much at once, and the wound is bleeding, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, and after this conversation John will be gone; John will be gone, and he will never come back, so it doesn’t matter what Sherlock says, not anymore. “I kept seeing her as Mary _fucking_ Morstan, and I just—couldn’t stop it. I started telling everyone about her crush on Victor, and I don’t even know why. Victor’s _gay_ , he doesn’t want Darah, and then afterward he could see me for _me_ and he hated it, he hated me, and—“

There are arms around him, and without conscious thought, Sherlock drops his knees and turns into the embrace. John’s hand pets a line down his back, even and soothing, and Sherlock chokes on his breath, even if he doesn’t cry.

“I’m sure he doesn’t hate you,” John says, his voice soft and close to Sherlock’s ear.

It’s the delicacy of John’s voice, where it sounds like even he doesn’t believe what he’s saying, that really breaks Sherlock. He presses his face forward into John’s shoulder and tries to take a deep breath. Each one sounds rattling and raw. “He does. I ensured that he does.”

Hands on his shoulders, and then John pushes Sherlock back so he can get a good look at him. Sherlock refuses to play along and keeps his head down, eyes on the rumpled duvet. “You can’t deal with things this way, by exploding at people. I know that’s not what you want to hear right now, but—shit, what you’ve been doing doesn’t work. Surely you can see that?”

Sherlock shrugs listlessly, his shoulders still cradled in John’s palms. He feels John grip them tight.

“If you wanted to know what was going on with Mary and me, you should have just asked me. I would have told you, you know? If you felt uncomfortable with Victor talking to Darah, you should have just told him. You can’t…” He sighs. “You can’t just bottle these things up and then go mad with it. It’s not healthy for you, and it’s painful to those around you. You have to talk to us.”

Breaking out of John’s hold, Sherlock moves back and puts some distance between them. His throat aches and his chest hurts, and he is a series of pains for which there are no physical reasons. He tries to swallows but his mouth is too dry.

He says, “There is something wrong with me.”

“No!” John automatically defends him, and then hesitates. “Well, yes, but not in the way you’re thinking—I mean, you have hardly cornered the market on personality flaws. Everyone has them. And everyone has to work on them. Otherwise…”

Sherlock looks up and catches John’s eye. “Otherwise?”

“If you work hard enough to alienate people, eventually it’s going to work.” John’s hands, now unoccupied, fiddle in his lap. “And I know it’s hard for you, and I don’t want you to—you don’t have to change, you know, you don’t have to be someone else. But closing yourself off and keeping everyone at a distance doesn’t protect you like you think it does.” When Sherlock opens his mouth to argue, John cuts him off. “If it did, we wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.”

Sherlock finds that he can’t argue with that. He frowns. “How do I…” The words evade him. He feels like an idiot. “How…?”

“Well, in this particular instance, you probably have some apologies you ought to make. And, for the most part, you should be prepared to know that they might not get accepted, but you should make them, anyway.” John scratches at his ear. “And if the future, maybe just—talk. About your feelings?”

“This is expert advice,” Sherlock says, not quite as dryly as he’d like.

John notices, it’s clear, but he’s good enough to play along anyway. “Well, I clearly have things to work on in this area, as well.”

They lapse into an awkward silence, and Sherlock hates it—things should never be awkward with John, he’s _John_ —so he takes a deep breath and blurts out, “I apologize for following you. I knew it was wrong and did it anyway because I was curious and jealous.”

John’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline, but the smile on his lips is real. “Thank you. I accept your apology, but seriously, don’t do it again. If I didn’t understand your curiosity like I do, I’d be really unnerved.” He pauses, and then adds in a teasing tone, “And jealous, were you?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Oh shut up, like you weren’t jealous of Victor.” Mentioning Victor’s name makes him remember, and his face falls.

“All you can do is tell him you’re sorry,” John says gently. “Just apologize and if it doesn’t work out, then—well, you’ll know better for the future.”

It’s not a perfect answer, but Sherlock doubts he deserves one of those, at this point. He nods; even if he doesn’t want to, he can see the practicality in John’s words. “Thank you for coming up here tonight.”

John looks at him, all bright and honest, and it brings Sherlock so much relief that it almost feels like pain. “I am glad I did. You know, it’s weird, but this is the first time in months and months that I’ve felt like we’re _really_ friends.” He nudges Sherlock with an elbow. “I’ve missed it.”

In a strange way, it’s true. It feels like they haven’t been honest with each other in so long, and now that they have been, Sherlock feels—lighter. His friendship with John had deteriorated so slowly, over days and weeks and months, that he hadn’t seen the downward progression for what it was until they were there at the bottom, together. Now, it finally feels like they might be at a place where they _can_ have that friendship again. He tries to grin, and it comes out a tight, small thing, but John doesn’t seem to mind. “I have, too.”

They sit for a moment, just smiling at each other, and then John says, “Well, okay. Can I stay the night? Because it is,” he glances down at the watch on his wrist and grimaces, “way too damn late. I’ll take the floor, and—“

“Don’t be ridiculous. I dragged you to Cambridge in the middle of the night so we could fight. You have earned the bed.” Sherlock stands and tugs at his clothes to straighten them. He stares at Oliver’s bed, briefly considering, and then imagines what his stupid roommate has done in that bed. Lip curling in disgust, Sherlock snatches up his pillow and tosses it on the floor. “I’m using my pillow, though.”

“So giving, you are,” John laughs. He continues to do so until Sherlock throws an extra pair of pyjamas in his face.

\--

Twenty minutes later, they are both failing to sleep in the dark. Sherlock chews over the question that’s weighing on his mind, wondering whether or not he should say something. He’s nearly decided not to when he thinks that his resolve to be more honest with John should probably last longer than an hour.

“What about Mary?” Sherlock asks.

The duvet shifts above his head and then John peeks over the side of the bed and down at Sherlock. “What about her?” John cannot see the look Sherlock gives him in the dark, but he must be able to sense it, because he huffs out a small laugh. “I don’t know. We’re just friends.” There’s a pause, then: “For now.”

Sherlock considers the words, lets them wash over him, and is surprised to find how little they hurt.

“Good. That’s—good.”

“Yeah?” John sounds…pleased.

“Yeah.”

John takes in a deep breath and then lets it out in a contented sigh. “Well, alright then. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I REWROTE THIS SO MANY TIMES, Y'ALL DON'T EVEN KNOW
> 
> It's still not where it ought to be, but it's the best I can do, I think. So.
> 
> In response to the flood of "BUT WAIT IS THIS A JOHNLOCK STORY OR A VICLOCK STORY?" I'm about to get, I will say this: do you really think Sherlock is in a place where he should be someone else's partner? If you think yes, then...um, well, I disagree, and it's my story. So there. Haaa. :)
> 
> Does that mean romance is gone for good from TTP? Heck no. But it won't be there for a bit. Let Sherlock work on his shit, dudes.
> 
> "But who will he end up with?" Yep, I'm still not telling you this. And explaining why I won't tell you would reveal too much, so just: trust me. I love you all, and I'm not screwing you over. Pinky promise.
> 
> HAVE A LOVELY DAY, FRIENDS! If you'd like, come say hello on tumblr. :)


	28. Chapter 27

Sherlock wakes up to John's toe nudging him in the ribs.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John whispers. “You awake?”

With a groan, Sherlock replies, “No.”

There's a husky laugh, John's voice still hoarse from hours of disuse. Sherlock blinks. His eyes are gummy and dry, and he can feel every ache and pain from sleeping on the floor all night. The room is still dim; it's too early to be awake. He rolls onto his stomach and sticks his face into his pillow, whining when John pokes him once again with his socked foot.

“How are you feeling?”

Huffing into his pillow, Sherlock turns and squints up in John's general direction. “Currently? Tired.”

Undeterred, John grins. “Shut up, you hate sleeping. Seriously, though, are you alright? Better than last night?”

Sherlock rubs at the sleep in his eyes. His hip is sore from where he tried to sleep on his side. He pushes himself up onto his knees and glances toward Oliver's side of the room, which is mercifully empty. He feels slow and fuzzy, sleep still hanging on him like a heavy blanket; in this state, last night feels distant.

Victor.

He frowns at his pillow. Everything creeps back over him and settles in his stomach. He feels calmer, but better? No, not better.

He sighs. “I don't know how to fix this.”

John slips off the bed and sits down near Sherlock, his back against the box spring. When he finally finds his voice, he sounds hesitant, tentative. “Maybe you can’t. Maybe that's not what you ought to focus on.”

John’s face suggests that he is expecting some sort of abuse for daring to say so, but his concern is misplaced. Sherlock is very aware that his shortcomings are what caused this situation; he has always been a believer in facts, and to ignore the hard truth about himself would be hypocritical. As much as he wishes there were someone else to blame, Sherlock knows that what happened was his fault. Something coils deep in the pit of his stomach. It feels like shame.

John is right, no matter how much Sherlock hates to admit that. He likely can't fix what happened between him and Victor. There is no viable solution. He created this mess, and now he must deal with the consequences.

How tedious.

“I still feel...” Sherlock starts, but he can't find the rest of the words to describe what is happening inside him. What is it that he’s feeling? Guilt? Regret? Pain? Perhaps something more romantic—not love, not yet, but the kind of pleasant stirring in his chest that he developed a few weeks ago, a strange physical reaction to the thought of Victor and his ridiculous hair and his overeager sincerity.

With a friendly pat to Sherlock's shoulder, John says, “I know you do.”

It’s strange. Despite the fact that John doesn’t know what he means or how he feels—couldn’t know, not when Sherlock himself has no idea—Sherlock believes him, anyway.

They lapse into silence. Sherlock almost misses the righteous fury he felt last night; at least that seemed more dynamic and worthwhile than the oppressive memories of what he did. The blonde girl from his literature course, Colleen, and the disgust twisting her lip, Darah's overbright eyes and obvious embarrassment, Victor staring at him like Sherlock had become alien and unrecognizable.

Sherlock curls in on himself and looks over at John, who seems to be trying to mentally burn a hole through the floor. Part of him wonders why John is still around, why John still cares—even though he knows what Sherlock's done, what Sherlock _is_ , he is here. It’s more than that, though. John is not just here; he snuck out of his house and took a train and listened without judgment as Sherlock told him all that he’d done. He forgave Sherlock and comforted him and stayed the night. All that, and for what purpose? Why does John insist on sticking around after everything that's happened between them and the ways they've hurt each other? 

It doesn’t make any sense, logically, which Sherlock hates because he knows, then, that whatever the answer is, it pertains to emotion—to matters of the heart, rather than of the mind. He knows what has happened, that John has been the one constant in his life for the past year and a half, but it isn’t until that moment that everything slots together in his mind.

The evidence makes it clear: John cares for him unconditionally. Breath catching in his throat, Sherlock nearly chokes on the revelation. He coughs and sputters, shrugging off John's well-meaning pat to his back. He moves out of John's reach until he can find his voice again.

“You okay?” John asks, his brow furrowed in concern.

That is not an easy question to answer. He isn't—he messed things up with Victor, he created issues where there didn't need to be any, he let his insecurities rule his behavior and lashed out on those who did not deserve it. And yet, John is still here.

It doesn't make sense, in the terrible way that emotions never make sense, but for the first time, he doesn't want to question it. He has no wish to rip this delicate understanding apart, to get to its roots and figure it out from its most basic parts. It is simple: he and John are friends, no matter what. He won't drive John away. More to the point, he _can't_ drive John away.

He stares at John, who stares back, confused.

“Did I do something?” John asks.

“I don't understand why you put up with me.” The words slip out of Sherlock's mouth without his permission, and he nearly flinches at them. He didn't mean to be so honest.

To his surprise, John's mouth quirks into a smile. “You have your moments.” His eyes search over Sherlock's face, and he wonders if John sees more there than either of them expected him to be able to. He goes suddenly serious. “You know—Sherlock, no one knows why anyone puts up with them. I mean, in general, very few people think they deserve the people they love who also love them. It's just...a thing, you know. That everyone feels.”

The words make Sherlock feel strangely small. He stares at the floor and nods, not trusting himself to be able to form a coherent thought. Silence stretches between them, loud with unsaid words.

“So!” John says, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder and grinning a bit too wide. It breaks the tension, however poorly. “Apologies, right? You have a few you owe.”

Sherlock slumps forward, pouts. “I suppose so. If I must.”

“You must. We should make a list.”

In response, Sherlock groans.

\--

An hour later, they have argued their way into a short list. It’s scribbled on the first few lines of a clean sheet of paper from one of the notebooks Mycroft insisted on purchasing for Sherlock before the beginning of the school year, despite the fact that they both know that Sherlock doesn’t need to take notes. John is sat at Sherlock’s desk, coloring in one of the corners on the page as they talk.

Victor is the most obvious inclusion, and Darah a close second, but the third person—Sherlock frowns as he looks at the name. It’s not that he is unaware that he was cruel to Colin at the beginning of the first term, it’s just that he’s not especially sorry. Colin was an idiot, and Sherlock doubts that that has changed in the past few months. 

John frowns when Sherlock says as much. “You can’t just go around lashing out as people because they annoy you.”

“Why not?” Sherlock huffs, folding his arms across his chest.

The look John gives him—Sherlock hates that look. It’s not the same as the one everyone else gives him, like they think he’s a monster, incapable of real emotion. It’s a disappointed curl in his lip and a heavy set to his shoulders that clearly reads what John won’t say: you can do better than this, you _are_ better than this.

It makes Sherlock feel ashamed. He hates feeling ashamed. He’d be angry at John if he hadn’t lived through the consequences of feeding his own anger the day before.

“I know you don’t actually need me to answer this question,” John says, his voice taut with patience that is quickly running out. “So instead, I’ll just point out that you think everyone is an idiot, and it doesn’t make sense to lash out at every single person.”

Sherlock stands, moves away from the bed. John is right, in the way that John often is about all the things that don’t require deduction. It’s both his most fascinating and most frustrating personality trait. In lieu of an actual reply, Sherlock mutters, “I suppose that would be terribly time consuming.”

The smile that lights up John’s face is worth the concession. “Right. So, Colin is officially on the list. Anyone else you want to add?”

There is someone, but Sherlock finds he can’t voice it with John sitting in front of him, watching him choke on his words. It’s difficult for him to fathom what it would be like to apologise to John for everything that’s happened since this past summer. John isn’t blameless—Sherlock is too petty to pretend otherwise—but he’s also been wronged. Sherlock has wronged him.

He pushed John away, and he got angry when John wouldn’t let him take it back. He kept the truth about his relationship with Victor from John because it was easier than admitting that maybe, just maybe, he was starting to move on. And, worst of all, when John showed signs of doing the same, Sherlock let the worst parts of himself rule his actions, and he destroyed much of what he’d built since starting at Cambridge.

Sherlock hates admitting when he’s wrong, hates making himself vulnerable that way—but he loves John. Not the way he did last summer, or for most of the fall. Things have changed. They hurt each other too much. But they’re both still here, and they both still care, and some hopeful part of Sherlock that he normally doesn’t encourage whispers that that may be enough. John had said once that their friendship was more important than anything else, and now Sherlock can see why. It is rare and unconditional and undoubtedly the best thing in his life, at the moment.

As much as he does not want to acknowledge it, he hasn’t been the friend John deserves. An argument could be made that John hasn’t been as supportive as he ought to have been, either, but it isn’t a competition. Sherlock isn’t interested into making it one. For some reason, good, honest John Watson puts up with his pompous arse, and Sherlock is—the word comes to him slowly, but then it is obvious to him: he is _grateful_. He never expected to be anyone’s best friend.

John quirks an eyebrow at him, caught somewhere between amused and perplexed by the way Sherlock keeps hesitating. “You think of someone else?”

It’s too much to articulate. Sherlock decides that he has time to find the words. “No, I didn’t.”

Although it isn’t his best lie—and from the skeptical look John sends him, they both know it—John lets it slide. He holds out the list, flapping the sheet of paper around until Sherlock crawls to the foot of the bed and snatches it out of John’s hand. 

“So I just apologize and then they forgive me and we all go about our lives, correct?” Sherlock asks as he stares down at the names in front of him. Colin, Darah, Victor. Now that he’s looking at them, thinking about what to say and how to approach them, this seems much more daunting than when John brought it up.

“It might not actually be that easy, you know. You should be prepared for that.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Honestly, John, this is difficult enough without worrying whether or not I’ll fail at it.”

“That’s not what I meant,” John says. “And you know it. Now, how are you feeling?”

Because he knows that John expects an actual answer, Sherlock considers. “Much calmer than yesterday.” 

There’s more to it than that, and for a moment, he hesitates and bites back the words. Sherlock was not raised to be forthcoming; his parents were distant at best, and Mycroft has never been one for emotional displays. He doesn’t know how to communicate what he feels; he’s always felt to do so makes him weak, vulnerable.

But he was weak in front of John—and vulnerable and cruel and so many things—and although he still thinks that Mycroft is likely right (damn him) and that caring is disadvantageous more often than not, he’s starting to believe that there are exceptions. John is one of them.

It’s been months of jealousy and passive aggressive behavior and pettiness on both sides, and yet as Sherlock looks at John now, he feels like they are better friends than ever before. They’ve finally got past it, he realises. There’s nothing else unsaid between them. They’re friends, proper friends—as they should have been all along.

This whole year so far would have been much easier if he could have had John as his friend.

Keeping all of his emotions inside of him, tucking them away with all the other parts of himself he finds dissatisfactory, is probably not what most people would consider healthy. Most people are idiots, so typically Sherlock just ignores them, but after last night, he cannot deny that something has to change.

The worst part of all of it is that he is fairly certain that Victor could have been an exception for him. He thinks back to the look Victor gave him—the one that everyone inevitably gives him, the one that makes him feel _wrong_ —and suddenly remembers that Victor reached out to him, even as he was getting out of the car. It hurts in a way both horribly similar and completely different than the way it hurt to go through this with John.

Sherlock steels himself and then looks up, catching John’s eye. “I’m very sad,” he says.

It sounds childish and stupid, and he regrets the words as soon as they’ve left his mouth—for all the effort it took to form them, they seem so small. He opens his mouth to tell John to ignore what he said until he notices how John is staring at him. John’s face has crumpled into the perfect expression of empathy, and some part of Sherlock is fascinated by that, that everyone in the world knows how to make that face except for him, but he does not have time to dwell on it. John gets up from the chair and sits next to Sherlock. Tentatively, he puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It will get better,” John tells him, his voice low and soothing. “You just need some time.”

Sherlock heaves a sigh. “Yes, but I just want to skip to the better part.”

“Don’t we all.”

There’s a buzzing sound, and John reaches into his pocket. He answers the call, standing up to walk away from the bed. “Hi Dad. I know I haven’t called yet—yes, I’m still in Cambridge. I know. Right, alright. I’ll see you then.” He turns back to Sherlock with a grin. “Dad is driving to pick me up so that we have a bit of extra time. Why don’t we start work on your list? We can find Colin.”

“And by that,” Sherlock says, rolling his eyes. “You mean that you expect me to hack into the student records database while you watch?”

John grins. “Pretty much.”

\--

It’s bitterly cold that evening when Sherlock finally emerges from his room. John’s been gone for a few hours. When Mr. Watson picked John up, he’d made sure to take Sherlock aside and give him a hug. It had been strange, but not entirely unpleasant. Mr. Watson had also presented Sherlock with a tin of biscuits and treats, courtesy of Mrs. Watson, as well as a note in her writing insisting that he call her soon. Sherlock had put the note on his desk by his laptop, a friendly reminder that he has not destroyed _every_ good relationship in his life. He left the biscuits on Oliver’s bed as a kind of peace treaty.

That had been John’s idea, of course.

Shrinking into his coat, Sherlock fingers the piece of paper in his pocket. The student database was not as well protected as the university probably thought it was; breaking into it had been simple, as had finding Colin. He hadn’t dropped out of school—a surprise and a relief, considering how cruel Sherlock had been. The boy had switched around his first semester schedule, but he seems to have adjusted well enough. Middling grades, no major complaints from the professors. He lives in a small room on the far side of campus, and he gets out of his evening lecture in ten minutes.

Sherlock waits outside the hall, stomping his feet to keep them from going numb. A few students trickle out, but none of them are Colin. Sherlock had not been sure he’d recognize the boy, having only seen him a few times in class, but the records office has the photos from every student ID in their electronic files. As the front doors fling open and people begin to pour out into the quad, he scans the area for dark brown hair in an unattractive cut, pale skin, freckles.

Colin is one of the last to walk away from the building, stuck holding the door open for his classmates. Sherlock spots him and watches as people flood by him in wave after wave. When the crowd dies off, Colin lets the door close and starts heading down the path that leads back to the street, nearly breezing by Sherlock.

“Colin,” Sherlock says, only raising his voice a little. Some small part of him hopes that Colin doesn’t notice him and keeps moving so that he can send John an apologetic text— _he didn’t hear me, oh well I tried._

He has no such luck. Colin pauses and swings around, a friendly smile on his face that quickly turns aghast and horrified. “What the—it’s _you_. What do you want?”

When Sherlock takes a step forward, Colin takes one back. This surprises Sherlock more than he wants to admit; no one has ever found his physical presence frightening before. He clears his throat. “You remember me, then.”

“I almost dropped out of school because of you,” Colin spits. His voice is uneven, jagged and hoarse, and he keeps blinking. Trying to fight back tears? But why? It’s been _ages_. “I changed to a different course of study—I had to drop all my classes and pick up new ones. Do you know how expensive all new books were?”

Sherlock doesn’t. He’d got his books on his father’s dime, back when he and his father were still speaking. Toward the end of break, Mycroft had shipped the new textbooks Sherlock had needed for the upcoming term to Victor’s house. Sherlock still doesn’t know how his brother got ahold of his schedule.

It didn’t occur to him, until this moment, that there might be larger repercussions than embarrassment. Suddenly, he knows that John was right. Colin deserved to be on the list.

He makes a mental note to never tell John that.

“I sought you out to apologise,” Sherlock says. Now that he’s standing across from Colin, looking him in the eyes, he realizes he doesn’t know what to say. “What I said was—well, true, but…cruel, nonetheless, and I am sorry I shared it with the class. It wasn’t my place. I took my anger out on you, and you did not deserve that. Please forgive me.”

Colin stares, eyes wide behind his terrible haircut. He opens and closes his mouth several times like a surprised fish. “What?”

“I was terrible to you, and I am sorry. Please forgive me.”

“No.”

The word rings oddly in Sherlock’s ears. “What?”

Colin crosses his arms and hugs himself so tight that his knuckles go white. “I said no, I don’t forgive you. Fuck off.”

It seems silly, almost, but until this moment it didn’t occur to Sherlock that Colin could do that. He vaguely recalls John saying something about it, but he’d ignored John because it had seemed preposterous. Of course he’d be forgiven—he was sorry. Looking at the hatred in Colin’s eyes makes Sherlock’s chest burn with same.

At a loss, Sherlock sways back and forth on his feet. “Look, I feel awful.” It wasn’t true before, not realy, but it is now. “Is there something I could do—“

“You could leave! Everyone spent the whole first term laughing at me. Do you know what that was like? It’s been months, and still no one on my floor talks to me! I’m glad you feel bad. You _should_ feel bad. Leave me alone.”

With that, Colin spins on his heel and marches away, head held high. Sherlock watches him disappear into the night. He stays in that spot for several minutes, lost in thought. It had never occurred to him that he could feel genuine remorse and that someone else might not care.

He thinks of Victor and sucks in a deep breath.

His mobile snaps him out of it, buzzing in his pocket. He plucks it out. There’s a text from John on the screen.

_Did you find Colin?_

Sherlock taps out a yes and hits send.

_And?_

He should answer, Sherlock knows. John will worry. Later, though, he tells himself. After a moment, he pockets his mobile and makes his way back toward his dormitory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M THE WORST, I KNOW.
> 
> good news: THE END IS NIGH. like, seriously. it's coming up pretty quickly. HOORAYYYY! more details soon. ish. whenever the next update is.  
> bad news: WHO KNOWS HOW LONG IT'LL TAKE ME TO WRITE IT. *cries*
> 
> p.s. miss you guys, how are y'all doing?


	29. Chapter 28

It’s weeks later before Sherlock gets up the nerve to try again.

He hovers outside the library, glaring at everyone as they enter and exit through the front doors. He’s never been inside the building itself—it’s always crawling with people, students and tourists who have come to gawk at its hallowed halls. Darah is a student worker there, however. She was forever covered in paper cuts, and the smell of old books always lingered after her. Obvious.

Also, he had met Victor on the steps numerous times when Victor had gone to visit Darah while she was working—but that’s not deduction, that’s cheating.

He lingers, halfway up the stairs, shifting his weight back and forth on his feet. Taking out his mobile, he finds John’s name and sent a text.

Do I have to? SH

No response. John is likely busy doing some sort of army thing—and just when Sherlock needs him! How maddening.

It isn’t that Sherlock is nervous; he has no reason to be nervous. Darah’s approval means nothing to him. They were never friends. She had functioned in his life as a strangely clingy extension of Victor, and now that he and Victor are done, it is as if she barely existed at all. He can delete her from his hard drive whenever he wants.

And yet, you haven’t, some traitorous part of his mind whispers. Sherlock nearly tells himself to shut up before he realises that that is probably not entirely healthy.

He thinks of Colin, the boy’s face twisted in rage and disgust as he threw Sherlock’s apology back in his face, remembers how he had dodged John’s texts for hours afterward. John had eventually called and forced the whole story out of Sherlock. And it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t. Colin is little more than a faceless nobody, another part of the crowd that Sherlock constantly ignores.

But damn it all, Sherlock had wanted to be forgiven.

With a deep breath, Sherlock mounts the rest of the steps and walks inside. He moves quickly, not even bothering to apologise to the people he jostles out of his way as he stalks down the hallway, hands clenched at his sides. The building is beautiful and impressive—stained glass, a high arched ceiling—but Sherlock notices none of it. It isn’t until he gets to the checkout desk, where Darah is sitting and staring at a computer screen, that he allows himself to think at all.

“How can I help you?” Darah asks, sounding bored. She looks up and notices to whom she is speaking, and surprise quickly gives way to annoyance. “Oh. Go away.”

“I would like to speak to you,” he says. She turns back to the screen, determinedly clicking the mouse instead. “Do you have a break coming up soon? It will only take a few minutes.”

Darah glares at him. Her hair is different than the last time he saw her at the disastrous party; it’s blue at the ends, now, and shorter than it was before. Women often embrace a new hairstyle when trying to make an important change in their lives. It makes no sense—why should there be any sort of corroboration between a physical modification and a mental or emotional one?

“I promise, I won’t bother you again.” He keeps his voice low.

Behind him, a voice rings out, “Oi, just talk to your boyfriend. The rest of us are trying to check out books, and like, actually work.” Both Sherlock and Darah send the girl a nasty look, and she raises her hands up, backing off.

Darah’s eyes dart down to the corner of the computer screen—she’s checking the time. Sherlock watches her chew on her lip and then sigh, nodding defeat. “Fine. Meet me outside in ten minutes. My shift ends then.” She looks up at him through a squint. “I don’t want to yell at you in a place where I’m supposed to be quiet.”

Sherlock’s stomach feels leaden, but he nods anyway. “All right. Ten minutes.”  
\--

She’s outside twenty minutes later. Sherlock suspects she kept him waiting on purpose, hoping that he’d leave. Her disappointment that he’s still there reads in the slump of her shoulders, the slight frown on her face.

“Thank you for—“

Darah cuts him off before he finishes his sentence. “First of all, how dare you come to me while I’m at work and can’t be rude to you without getting into trouble. That’s some manipulative bullshite.”

Sherlock blinks. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him—probably because he lets himself be rude to whomever he pleases, whenever he pleases. “I didn’t realise—“

“I wasn’t done yet. Secondly, I am not interested in anything you have to say to me, so don’t waste your breath.” Accordingly, Sherlock does not speak, so Darah barrels forward. “Do you know how much your hurt Victor? Forget about everything you did to me for a second, but God, he was a mess over you, and he wouldn’t even talk to me about it. He still won’t, actually.”

She seems to run out of words and starts to fumble through her purse. She pulls out a package of cigarettes and a lighter, inhaling deeply and letting out a cloud of smoke. The silence between them runs too long.

“Well, don’t you have something to say for yourself?”

“You told me not to talk.” He answers, resisting the urge to roll his eyes when she glowers at him. “Fine. I wanted to apologise to you.”

“Right,” she scoffs. She takes another drag, and Sherlock watches the end of her cigarette burn red and then peter out. “I’m not interested patting your head and telling you it’s all okay.”

The words set Sherlock’s teeth on edge: what is the good of all this apologising if everyone refuses to forgive him? He thinks of John, and what John had told him—no one is obligated to accept his apology. All he can do is offer it.

He lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Be that as it may, I am genuinely sorry for embarrassing you during your party. You told me about your feelings in confidence, and I betrayed your trust.” The words sound a little stilted, and he knows it’s because John coached him through this apology on the phone, making sure that Sherlock hit every point he needed to. It doesn’t mean that he is any less sincere, and he hopes that comes across. “I did what I did because I was feeling petty and jealous and insecure. That’s my failing, not yours. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

The words feel like gravel in his mouth, and it’s tough to talk around them. Sherlock hates this contrition business, he really does. What’s worse is the look Darah gives him, like she can see everything inside of him and is wholly unimpressed. Is this how it feels when he looks at others? No wonder he’s not more popular.

“I—I don’t know if Victor ever told you, about John,” he says, stumbling over the words as he deviates from his speech.

Darah throws her cigarette on the ground and stamps it out angrily. “Oh, you mean the bloke you were still in love with while you were _dating my best friend_? Just—God, Sherlock! You can’t treat people this way, you know? You can’t blunder around acting like your actions don’t hurt others because they do.” She waves a hand as if that explains everything. “I mean, obviously.”

And it’s true, what she’s saying. He was in the wrong. He knew, no matter how he felt about Victor, that he still wasn’t over John. He knew Victor cared about him immensely; he’d liked that feeling, had liked knowing how much he meant to Victor. But he’d liked Victor, as well. Very much, in fact. It’s not fair for her to make it out as if Victor was the only person who got hurt. Sherlock got hurt, too, even if he did the damage to himself.

His blood is running a little hotter when he replies. “I’m not here to apologise to you for things I did to Victor. I’ll tell him what I need to say to him in due time. I can only tell you that the way I acted was completely uncalled for, and that I fully regret my actions from that evening. You did not deserve to be the focus of my ire.”

For a moment, Darah stares at him, squinting, presumably trying to make him out. She gives up after a minute, sighs, and lights another cigarette. “And you’re not just saying this as some sort of weird way to get in good with Victor again?”

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

“You know, butter me up, get on my good side, and then use me to get back to Victor.” She says it like it’s all so obvious, and it occurs to Sherlock that this is her opinion of him: that he is low, that he is devious. Darah is a nice girl. It is not pleasant to know that she feels this way.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says, stiffly, after a minute, and hates the feeling of relief that courses through him when Darah nods reluctantly.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so. Not after that speech.” She taps the ash from her cigarette onto the ground. “You know, you actually sound sincere.”

He wants to be offended that she’s surprised, but he isn’t. “I am.”

“Yeah. Fine. You’re forgiven, then.”

Sherlock nearly gapes at her before he catches himself. He is forgiven. It doesn’t feel like much—the world does not slow down or speed up, nothing shifts dramatically into place. And yet, something small in the corner of his soul settles, soothed. It takes a moment for him to identify what he’s experiencing: a sense of peace.

“Thank you,” he tells her, a bit too much sincerity creeping into his voice.

They stand face-to-face, staring awkwardly. John never explained what would happen next in the forgiveness process. It feels like there should be more to it than this; after the extreme failure that was his apology to Colin, this conversation has been—almost simple. Not nearly as painful as imagined. Shouldn’t there be more hoops to jump through, more coals to be raked over?

Darah breaks the silence with a sigh. She smokes her cigarette down to the filter and then tosses it to the ground, crushing it beneath her foot. “Right. Do you want to get a cuppa, then?”

Sherlock rewinds the past few moments in his head, studies them again, and is shocked to find that he was not hallucinating, as he initially believed. Darah did, in fact, just as to him to go get a cuppa after he apologised for humiliating her in front of all of her closest friends.

“What?” he asks. As unfamiliar as he is with the procedure around apologies, it seems unlikely that this is a common outcome of them. He is not close to Darah; even before their falling out, she was Victor’s friend, not his. They never passed friendly acquaintances.

And yet she is standing in front of him, rolling her eyes as if he is the most obtuse person she’s ever met—which he isn’t, clearly, and he has half a mind to tell her that, but she cuts off his train of thought.

“A cuppa. You know, tea. The lifeblood of the English?” She smirks a little, not unkindly. “Look, Sherlock, I know how much it must have pained you to come here and say this to me, and I appreciate it. But more than that—I mean, honestly? You seem kind of lonely. And Vicky is usually right about people, so if he saw something good in you, then there’s probably something good to see.”

You seem kind of lonely. Something hits Sherlock directly in his gut, and at first it feels like anger, but as he waits for his reaction to settle so that he does not say something he regrets, it occurs to Sherlock that she is right. Cambridge hasn’t gone as he expected; or, maybe it has. After all, who before John ever really gave Sherlock the time of day? Who enjoyed listening to him?

He’s pushed everyone away since he came here—at first because he missed John, but then because he found Victor. And who did he need, then, other than Victor? After years of being friendless, he’d managed to make two friends. It was practically an embarrassment of riches.

Of course, he made mistakes with John—he’d placed John at the center of his universe and expected John to do the same for him. No person should be a universe, he thinks. Not a universe, nor a planet or star. Nothing to do with the solar system, in general. Bugger the solar system; he plans to delete all of it as soon as he can.

He’d demanded too much of John, had refused to accept it when John would not, could not give it to him, and had then made all the same mistakes with Victor. Or—perhaps he made worse ones.

Darah stands in front of him, looking increasingly nervous. She gnaws at her lip, fidgets back and forth on her feet. He hasn’t answered her; it’s getting to be awkward, how long it is taking him to reply. It’s making her uncomfortable. He knows that, but this—this is important.

Maybe a person is not supposed to be the center of anything. Mycroft always says that caring is not an advantage, and although Sherlock likes to disagree with everything Mycroft believes as a rule, he’s not _entirely_ wrong in this instance. Of course he’s not entirely right, either, but that’s hardly a surprise. Mycroft is much more daft than most people would believe.

There’s a difference, maybe, between caring for someone and caring too much. Between wanting them and wanting them to only want you. That’s what he did with John; if he could have erased everyone around John in order to have all of John’s attention, he would have. And he wanted it because John was the only person whose attention mattered to him.

Victor, though.

He’d demanded all Victor’s consideration without even attempting to give Victor all of his. At least, not until it was too late—not until he pushed too hard, isolated himself. Sherlock hadn’t realised how much he cared until he’d had to look at Victor’s heartbroken face as he said, “William.”

A person should not be his universe, and he should not be theirs. It’s not safe—not for them, not for him. He just doesn’t know what should be the thing that he spins around, that anchors him in its gravity.

Sherlock shakes his head, coming back to reality. Darah glances between her watch and his face, looking mystified.

“Five minutes, thirty-six seconds,” she says, tapping the watch’s face.

“What?”

“That’s how long you were catatonic. Are you all right? If Victor hadn’t mentioned that you sometimes do that, I think I might’ve called 999.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Have we sunk so low that we now call 999 when people actually _think_?” He stalks past her, moving quickly down the pavement, only to realise that she isn’t following. He turns on his heel. “Are you coming or what?”

He can see her owlish blink from ten paces away. “What?”

“I thought we were getting a cuppa.”

Darah breaks out into a grin and runs to catch up with him, punching him in the arm. “Yeah, yeah. I hope you know you’re buying.”

Sherlock smiles at her; it’s a small thing, but it’s real. It suddenly doesn’t feel so strange, to think that he and Darah might become friends. He wonders what John would say. Probably something encouraging, knowing John.

“I already deduced that,” he tells her as they turn the corner and head toward the café.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun things i've done since i last updated this story:
> 
> 1\. written two original novels.  
> 2\. agreed to publish one of them  
> 3\. battled a seriously nasty depressive spell (which i am still fighting, get outta here depression, no one likes you)  
> 4\. found jeans that fit perfectly
> 
> #4 definitely deserves to be there, and don't tell me otherwise.
> 
> turns out there's A LOT of work that goes into publishing something, and i have been...overwhelmed. i work a full time job on top of all the work i've been doing for that novel, and it's tough. my free time is down to practically nothing. it sucks, but it's also highlighted how important fanfiction is to me and how much i'd rather write fun novels for free online than anything else.
> 
> i am trying to finish ttp very quickly so that i can give you guys the end of this part of the series. there will be at least one more novel to follow this one (maybe two, i thought it would be two for a while, but right now my time is so limited i don't think i can commit to two).
> 
> to the ever present "victor or john" question: at this point, john and sherlock are just friends. that will not be changing in the next three chapters. as for the series itself? well. i'll put it this way: viclock is definitely my second love. if you can't guess my first at this point, then i don't know what to tell ya. :)
> 
> once i finish ttp, there will be a wait for the next part in the series. i'm sorry about that--truly, i am. trust me when i say that i wish fanfic could be my priority. but i'm too committed to this series to walk away from it, so the third part WILL HAPPEN. every now and again i think about the very last scene in the series, and how much i love it--and that's my motivation. i want you guys to see that point and to love it as much as i do.
> 
> so: ttp will be done in the next two-ish weeks, just before my birthday. HOW DOES EVERYONE FEEL ABOUT THAT? i feel excited, personally! i love the next few chapters.
> 
> the lovely sureaintmebabe is a bit busy this week, so she didn't have time to look over this chapter. if you notice any mistakes, please let me know. thank you!
> 
> if you're interested in johnlock, stucky, the x-files, or random stories from my life, my tumblr is [here](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com). feel free to drop me a line--i love to talk to people! and if you'd like to know more about the book i'm publishing, contact me there and we'll chat. :) i don't want to use fandom to promote myself (just feels a bit dickish to do that), so i'd rather do it away from here.
> 
> thanks, lovelies. see you again soon. :)


	30. Chapter 29

He is late, and Darah is going to lecture him about it. Again.

The last time it happened, he’d been caught up reading about the Taman Shud case. Darah had mentioned it—a great murder mystery that no one has ever solved. Naturally, the moment he heard about it, Sherlock was convinced he could solve it. It turned out to be a bit trickier than he’d imagined, since at the time of the crime all the evidence was collected and catalogued by morons. He’s positive it would be solved by now if only he’d been there.

He bet her ten quid he could do it, though, and he’s not quite ready to admit defeat. Sherlock is still chewing the facts over in his head as he enters the café and shrugs off his messenger bag; that’s the only thing that can account for him being so distracted that he misses Mycroft’s fat arse sat at Sherlock’s usual table.

His older brother is primly sitting on the edge of his chair, legs crossed, umbrella propped up beside him. It isn’t even raining, Sherlock thinks bitterly as he slides in across from Mycroft.

“What?”

Mycroft tuts. There’s a cup of tea on a saucer in front of him, and he uses his spoon to push down a slice of lemon each time it resurfaces. He does not, however, drink. “Tsk tsk, Sherlock. Is that any way to greet your brother?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m not interested in playing any of your little games today. I’m meeting someone here, and—“

“Ah, yes. A Miss Darah Barnes, if I’m not mistaken?” Mycroft dunks the lemon again and again and again, drawing out the silence. Sherlock does not look away, does not flinch. If he shows any sort of weakness, Mycroft will pounce.

In response to Sherlock’s direct stare, Mycroft shakes his head. He heaves a sigh, like being in the café is some sort of unbearable burden. He can go, then, for all Sherlock cares—it’s not as though Sherlock wants Mycroft there.

“Really, brother mine. Do you think this is a wise course of action?” That doesn’t make any sense—what on earth is Mycroft _talking_ about? “Oh, come now. You don’t have to play innocent with me. I know what you’re doing here, with our young Miss Barnes.”

Sherlock’s jaw nearly drops; he barely catches himself before it does. He knows his eyes widen, and that his skin goes flush with embarrassment. He curses himself; with Mycroft in London, Sherlock has fallen out of practice in dealing with him. He couldn’t even keep his poker face throughout the entirety of the conversation.

But how could he have predicted—is Mycroft _actually_ implying that Sherlock is romantically interested in Darah? Mycroft, who is very aware that everyone in Sherlock’s (admittedly small) dating history _is male_?

“Mycroft,” Sherlock starts, then stops. He has no idea where to begin. How on earth is he supposed to have this conversation? “I am—you _know_ that I am—“

Mycroft’s brow furrows and then suddenly heads for his hairline. A smile curls at the corner of his mouth, and it’s so patronizing—Sherlock hates it, hates him.

“Are you actually attempting to-- _come out_ to me, Sherlock?” Mycroft hums a little laugh. “Oh, that’s adorable. But no, that’s not what I was trying to say.”

Sherlock bristles, fidgeting in his seat. He is not _adorable_. He’s never been adorable in his life! The very idea is laughable.

And if Mycroft doesn’t think he’s dating Darah—well, then, what is it he thinks Sherlock is doing?

“Dear me, you’ve really perfected that innocent expression of yours. Come now, Sherlock, if you can be honest with anyone, it ought to be me. I know that you’ve befriended this young woman because of her connection to your, shall we say, former flame.” Taking a delicate sip of tea, he continues, “As much as I know you came to appreciate Mr. Trevor’s charms, I think we can agree that pursuing him through this girl is only going to get you into trouble.”

Sherlock feels cold.

It’s not so much the accusation in and of itself. Sherlock refuses to lie to himself: he knows that he is selfish, and callous, and forgetful of others. At least, he knows that he used to be. Maybe two years ago, he could have conceived using Darah in such a manner. Now, however, he doesn’t think he could stomach it if he tried. He likes to believe that he’s been better, lately. John has helped him.

But Mycroft doesn’t see that—it didn’t even occur to Mycroft that Sherlock may just _like_ Darah. His own brother doesn’t think him capable of that sort of feeling.  
It cuts him, more than Sherlock will ever admit. Despite what he says, Mycroft is his older brother, and Sherlock has always measured himself against Mycroft’s yard stick and found himself wanting.

Mycroft has apparently found him wanting, as well.

“I see,” Sherlock says, surprised at how even his voice sounds. His chest is a mess of emotion—never a good thing, for him, he doesn’t process things well in the moment—and he just needs to get out of there. He’ll text Darah, tell her they need to reschedule, tell her he got ill, tell her he’s _dead_. It doesn’t matter the story; he has to leave, and _now_.

Moving with a deliberate calmness that he does not feel, Sherlock stands. He slings his messenger bag back over his shoulder and walks toward the front door. He’s halfway down the block before he even notices the constant tap-tap-tap of an umbrella against pavement following behind him.

There’s no escaping Mycroft when he’s like this. Best to get it over with.

Sherlock stops and turns on a heel. As Mycroft saunters up to him, he spits, “I think I was pretty clear about whether or not I wanted to be in your presence.”

“I don’t understand your reaction,” Mycroft replies, ignoring everything Sherlock just said. Typical. “It’s not—you can’t actually _care_ for the girl?”

It’s a statement presented like a question, and it crawls under Sherlock’s skin, picking him apart at the bones. The incredulity in his brother’s voice—as if it’s _surprising_ that Sherlock should care for someone! He’s seen Sherlock with John. He should know that Sherlock can care. That he _does_ care.

“Is this truly shocking to you?” Sherlock asks, going for angry but merely sounding hurt. “After all you’ve seen from me in the past few years—“

“I thought—I thought John was an exception.”

Sherlock wants to be angry; he wants it more than anything. But there’s something in the wondering quality of Mycroft’s tone that holds him back, no matter how justified he may be. Because, if he’s being honest, he thought John was an exception, too. He thought it for a long time.

It’s one of the few instances where Sherlock is glad to have been wrong.

“Well,” he says, stiffly. “He isn’t.”

“I see that now.” Mycroft stares past Sherlock’s head, off into the street behind him. If Sherlock was late before, he may as well not even meet Darah, now. She has a class in a few minutes, anyway. Maybe he can catch her and walk her to it; it’s the least he can do for accidentally ditching her. Even if that _was_ stupid Mycroft’s fault.

“You ought to come stay with me this summer,” Mycroft says, apropos of nothing. “In London, I mean. I have a spare room in my flat, and I’m rarely at home, anyway, so you’ll have the run of the place.”

The school year is ending soon. Sherlock’s a month away from his final exams, but the summer holidays have yet to weigh heavy on his mind. John mentioned a few emails ago that his parents would be more than happy to take Sherlock in, and the offer has become more and more attractive as his time in Cambridge dwindles.

Sherlock is smart enough to realize that this is as close to an apology as he’s liable to get from Mycroft. He sighs. His brother spends most of his waking moments strapped to his desk at work; Sherlock would be able to come and go as he pleases, he wouldn’t have to worry about conforming his habits to someone else’s standards, and he would be in London.

He wishes he were too proud to admit that this is a good offer, but he isn’t.

“Alright,” Sherlock says, crossing his arms. “Fine.”

A black car pulls over, and a man in a fussy suit steps out in order to open one of the back doors for Mycroft. Sherlock never saw his brother summon a car, but he isn’t too surprised by that. Mycroft is a fan of drama.

“Excellent. Thank you.” Mycroft hesitates, hovering half in and half out of the car. “And Sherlock—“

“You’re forgiven.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, but deep down he feels secretly pleased. It’s nice to be on the other side of this forgiveness business, for once.

\--

He has four text messages from Darah waiting for him on his mobile.

_did u get lost????_

_some guy is at our table n he keeps looking at me, I’m gonna go to the bathroom and ignore him until u get here_

_WAIT do u know him????? y r u talkin to him? n yes I’m spying from the bathroom this isn’t my proudest moment ok_

_WHERE R U GOING? COME BACK I ALREADY ORDERED._

He hurries back down the block, only to find Darah stepping out the door. She takes a sip from a cup and grimaces; she must have burnt her tongue. She lights up a bit when she seem him, anyway. “You’re alive! I thought you might have been kidnapped. Who was that guy?”

Sherlock sighs. It is the kind of deep sigh that comes with interacting with Mycroft for any amount of time. “My older brother.”

“Ooh,” she nods sagely and begins to head back to campus, Sherlock by her side. Her class starts in just a few minutes, and though he doesn’t have one, as well, he likes to walk her to her building. Everything about their friendship is so stunningly mundane that Sherlock is surprised it doesn’t bore him. He’s glad it doesn’t. “Vicky mentioned him once or twice. Said that you'd told him your brother was kind of—overbearing.”

Hearing Victor’s nickname makes something ache deep inside Sherlock. He still hasn’t approached Victor; he doesn’t know _how_ , if he’s honest. He’s talked to John about it, but John always says unhelpful things like _just be honest with him_ and _tell him how you really feel._ As sound as that advice may be, it hasn’t helped Sherlock figure out how to approach Victor without getting punched in the nose.

Darah is usually more sensitive to Sherlock’s tenderness toward that particular subject, and she must see something in his face, because she sends him an apologetic look. “Sorry, mate. I wasn’t thinking.” She hesitates, and Sherlock already knows the next words that are about to come out of her mouth. “Have you thought any more about talking to him?”

He’s thought of little else. The end of the year is fast-approaching, and more than anything, Sherlock wants to make things right between them. It can’t be like it was before—he knows that he screwed up too badly, that he cut all ties, there. But he would like to move forward knowing that Victor doesn’t hate him, and that their relationship, however brief of tumultuous it was, isn’t something that either of them regrets.

Sherlock doesn’t regret it. He has regrets—of course he does. He should have waited until he no longer cared for John, he should have been more open, more communicative, he should have been kinder—the list can go on and on. But the relationship itself? Getting to know what Victor’s bedhead looks like, and the way he would smile at Sherlock when he thought Sherlock couldn’t see (as if Sherlock doesn’t _notice_ things)? No, he does not regret that.

Instead of answering, Sherlock shrugs.

Darah huffs an annoyed noise at him, but she lets it go. They’re on the campus pathway to the building where she has class; it seems to have come up unusually fast today. They aren’t talking as much as they typically do, although that’s likely because Darah’s never taken her drink to go before. Their routine is that they meet at the café early enough to have tea there, but stupid Mycroft ruined everything, as he is wont to do.

Still, the silence isn’t the norm, and there’s something about it that unnerves Sherlock. He can’t place his finger on it. Darah looks a little keyed up, but that could just be caffeine.

“I’m going to London this summer, to stay with my brother,” he offers, trying to stir the conversation between them. “He offered me a place at his home.”

Darah glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Oh? I thought you weren’t on the best terms with your family.”

“Only my parents, really. I mean, I hate Mycroft, but I still talk to him.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you hate him very much.” Darah laughs into her drink and then finishes it off, tossing it in a nearby bin. She points at herself. “This is the face of someone who believes you.”

He pretends to glare and knocks her with his elbow, but it only makes her laugh more.

“Well, he seemed right creepy at the time, what with the whole staring at me thing, but I’m glad you’ve found a place to stay.” She slows her pace. Sherlock glances at his watch. Doesn’t her class start in just a few minutes? “You didn’t mention that you were looking for one. You would have been welcome at mine, you know.”

Darah lives in Cambridge. It’s all right, but it isn’t London. He opens his mouth to tell her that, only to notice that she’s slowed down again. Her head whips around like she’s looking for someone.

Something uneasy settles in Sherlock’s stomach. “Darah, what are you doing?”

She looks at him, eyes too wide. “What do you mean?”

“You’re acting strange.” They’re hovering outside her building now, and he knows she’s going to be late for class, but she still doesn’t leave. “You’re going to be tardy if you don’t go in right now.”

“It’s fine, you worry too much.” She doesn’t even check the time on her mobile, just keeps craning her neck to check out their surroundings.

Suddenly, she sees something over Sherlock’s shoulder. Her expression changes, going bright and excited. She grins wide and stares up at Sherlock. “I might have done something.”

Sherlock’s insides feel like they’re made of lead. She wouldn’t—she couldn’t have—

He turns. She did.

Victor Trevor is behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY GUESS WHAT
> 
> THIS STORY IS GOING TO BE FINISHED BY MONDAY
> 
> (because that is my birthday and i promised myself it would be done by then)
> 
> ARE Y'ALL READY?????? WOOHOO IT'S GONNA BE FUN


	31. Chapter 30

“The fuck are _you_ doing here?” spits Victor. 

Sherlock feels like all the blood has drained from his body; this is not going to go well.

He turns to look at Darah, only to find her mouth hanging wide open in a perfect ‘o’ of surprise. Her eyes dart back and forth between Victor and Sherlock, but she says nothing. Sherlock wants to feel angry, but he can’t muster it. She is obviously shocked by Victor’s anger; she thought she was fixing things, not making them worse.

He sighs, faces Victor again. “I was just leaving.”

“Why are you bothering her?” Victor persists. He’s suddenly much closer, standing between Darah and Sherlock, fury vibrating off his skin in palpable waves. “What makes you think you can talk to her, after what you did?”

“Victor. Victor, _stop_!” Darah tugs at his arm, but he doesn’t move, just continues to hover in front of her protectively.

She didn’t tell him, then, that Sherlock had apologised. She had said she wouldn’t, but he had half-expected that she’d mentioned their friendship by _now_. The fact that she hasn’t bothers Sherlock more than he wants to admit, even as the rational part of his mind reminds him that he doesn’t have a right to feel angry in this situation.

“Darah, you’re going to be late for class,” Sherlock says. He keeps his voice as even and calm as he can manage. “I will text you later, alright?”

“Sherlock, don’t go,” she starts, pushing Victor out of the way. He makes an affronted noise, but Darah ignores him. Once she’s in front of Sherlock, he can see how sorry she is, how it reads in the defeated slump of her shoulders. “I honestly didn’t believe he’d react like this. He’s been such an incredible mope, I swear I thought—“

“It’s fine,” he tells her. It isn’t, but it will be.

Sherlock allows himself one glance—just one, just to see Victor. He hasn’t looked at him in weeks, and it’s been awful. Victor looks thinner, his cheekbones more pronounced than they were before, and his hair is limp. He’s been hurting too, it seems. Sherlock is sorry for that. He really is.

The apology is there, climbing up his throat, forming in his mouth, waiting behind his lips—and yet Sherlock remains mute. It’s not the right time. Victor is angry; he thinks that _Sherlock_ concocted this meeting, somehow. Likely that he believes as Mycroft did, that Darah is a pawn more than a friend, and Sherlock can’t listen to that again. It hurt, coming from Mycroft. To hear it from Victor, however, would be more than Sherlock thinks he can handle.

So he won’t handle it. He disengages, looks away. He has had his one glance; the world continues to turn. Victor is fine without him. A little sallow, a little sad, but fine. Time will cure him of all his ills. Maybe one day he will even be able to hear Sherlock’s apology without anger. Sherlock can only hope.

He turns and walks away, ignoring Victor’s squawk of protest and Darah calling out his name.

\--

Several hours later, he receives a text from Darah.

_okay so 1. I’m so sorry and 2. I’m also so sorry that I meddled again after it blew up in my face the first time_

_What do you mean, you meddled again? SH_

He never receives a reply.

\--

The call comes through at two in the morning, waking Sherlock up. He’d only fallen asleep an hour ago, having sent John several frantic emails and then waiting up far longer than he should have to see if John would have the chance to reply.

He didn’t, of course, and Sherlock hadn’t _really_ thought he would. But he hadn’t been sure what else to do. Darah had brought Victor back into the picture, and then she had done something else, something unknown and apparently meddlesome, and now she won’t text him back. His brain has come up with seventeen different likely scenarios for how she could have made things worse, and zero for how things could be better.

Oliver is out of the room; he’s been staying with his girlfriend the past few weeks, which is fine with Sherlock. He rouses suddenly when his ringtone starts to blare in his ear. Maybe John saw the email, after all, and decided to call.

His mobile is trapped in the covers of his duvet, and by the time he roots around and finds it, the call has rung off. He unlock his screen and stares in confusion at the name on it.

Victor tried to call him.

A moment later, there’s a beep and a notification pops up, letting him know he has a voice mail. Part of Sherlock thinks he ought to delete it outright, not even listen to the damn thing. He does not need another lecture about all that he should have done in the past; he can’t change that, now. All he can do is try to make amends and move on.

But it’s _Victor_. It’s not someone useless that Sherlock can easily ignore. Even if he isn’t sure it’s a good idea, he _has_ to listen to the message. It’s impossible to do anything else; his curiosity won’t allow it. Tentatively, he taps on the icon and listens to the ring as he connects to his voicemail.

The system lets his know he has one unheard message, and then it starts to play.

“ _Sherlock! Shhheerlock Homes. Holmes. Sh’lock!_ ” Victor’s nearly indecipherable, his speech heavily slurred with what is most likely alcohol. “ _I talked to Darah, and she said—shut up, I’m calling him, shut up, shh—she said that you apologised to her weeks ago! Actual weeks! And that you two are friends!_

There’s what sounds like a scuffle. Darah’s voice is faint in the background, chastising Victor for something, but a moment later, Victor’s voice is back.

“ _She said I was an arse, and she’s right, I was, I was an arse. I was such an arse! Stop trying to take my mobile, it’s MY mobile, get your own!_ ”

A wave of static hisses through the speaker, and then Darah comes through loud and clear. She, at least, sounds sober. “ _Sorry, Sherlock. He and I had a bit of a heart to heart and then he asked to go out for drinks. I swear I only left him alone for a second, I just seriously had to pee—_ “

“ _Sherlock! Call me back_!”

Victor is not a neat drunk, apparently. Darah mutters an “ _oh my God_ ” and then the call ends.

Sherlock glances at the time—it’s only a few minutes after two. He barely missed them. He bites his lip, considers calling back. It’d be useless, of course. Victor’s not in his right mind, at the moment; even if they do manage a civil conversation, he probably won’t remember it in the morning.

But Victor hadn’t sounded _mad_ , and Sherlock isn’t sure if that will last to the morning, either. He stares at his mobile, head swimming with sleep and confusion, and blinks in surprise as it starts to ring again.

He hesitates and then pokes at the screen. “Hello?”

“Sherlock! See, I _told_ you he would pick up! He hates sleeping!” Victor crows triumphantly. Darah’s reply to Victor’s babbling is unintelligible.

“Victor,” Sherlock says, trying not to feel the relief coursing through his veins at just saying the other boy’s name. “It’s past two.”

“Is it? Oh, shit! I didn’t—Darah, why didn’t you tell me it was so late?”

There’s the sound of a scuffle, and then Darah’s voice comes through the line. “For the record, I told him that about twenty times. Sorry, Sherlock. Go back to bed. I’ll keep his mobile from him until tomorrow.”

In the background, Victor whisper-shouts, “Ask him if he’ll see me! Do it!”

“He wants to see you.” Sherlock can hear the eye-roll in Darah’s voice. “Tomorrow, if possible. He’s talked about little else all night. Can you meet him after your class?”

Tomorrow. He could apologize to Victor _tomorrow_. It feels overwhelming; he hasn’t thought out his words, hasn’t practiced with John. It’s too much and he is not prepared—because what if it goes wrong? What if he trips over all the things he wants to say and instead says something he doesn’t mean? He’ll never have another chance to apologise, and Victor will never speak to him again. He wants Victor to speak to him again.

He wants more from Victor, but he’d settle for Victor speaking to him again.

“If he still wants to tomorrow, have him text me. Alright?”

“Sounds fair enough,” she says. “I’m going to hide this thing in my purse. Among all the tampons. He’ll not dare to go in there, I think. Night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight,” he says, as she rings off.

Sherlock lays back down, but he finds he can’t sleep. All he can think of is all the ways that tomorrow could go wrong, and a part of him hopes that Victor changes his mind and never gets in touch. A clear message: don’t call me, as I’ve not called you. Words can be so imprecise, and people lie, and—Sherlock is more terrified than he wants to admit.

\--

Morning creeps up slowly, and when Sherlock awakens, he’s somewhat surprised that he managed to sleep at all. He feels tired and achey, his eyes burning as he rubs the sleep from them. He glances at his mobile, but there are no more text messages or missed calls. Darah was true to her word, it seems, and kept Victor’s phone from him.

There is, however, a brief email from John.

_So sorry I couldn’t respond last night—I fell asleep at 830 after drills. I’ve become an old man. Next time you see me, I’ll have a cane._

_Sounds like Darah meant well, but she really shouldn’t have done what she did. It must have been tough, to see him again for the first time since everything that happened and have the moment be a surprise. I know you’ll apologise to him in your own time, on your own terms. Try not to freak out about this. That’s shitty advice, I know, but getting upset won’t solve anything. You can’t control what happens, only how you react to it._

_Wish I could talk more, but I have to run—the mess hall opens soon, and I’m starving. Could we switch our regular Skype night to Thursday? Mary’s only free on Wednesday…(: Thanks for asking about her during your last normal email, btw. Things are going well. Still taking things kind of slow and feeling them out, since the whole me-being-in-the-army thing is kind of complicated, but yeah. I’m happy._

_If Thursday doesn’t work, let me know and I’ll tell Mary that we’ll just have to talk some other time._

_Keep me updated about what happens with Victor!_

_\--John_

Sherlock traces over John’s name on his screen. The email is useless, in terms of practicality. There’s nothing in John’s words that fixes anything. But still, there’s a kind of comfort in having a best friend to whom he can tell these things. Vulnerability is awful and terrifying and—strangely satisfying, when with the right person.

He glances at the time and realizes he’s late for a review session—which is fine in that it’s his biology class and Sherlock is certain he can pass it with flying colors, and less fine in that attendance is part of his mark. He throws on the clothes closest to him and runs out the door, barely remembering to grab his mobile and keys before he goes.

\--

The session lasts forever, with all his classmates asking endless questions. A half hour before it’s supposed to end, Sherlock feels his pocket vibrate. A text, most likely. It takes every ounce of the will power he didn’t even know he had not to surreptitiously check his mobile right then and there. Darah had said Victor would text him if he wanted to meet up.

Of course, it could be Darah checking in to see if Victor ever made contact, or John wanting to know how he’s doing, or even fat Mycroft sticking his fat nose in Sherlock’s business, as usual. He has no empirical evidence that it is Victor.

And yet, he’s sure it is. His mobile feels like it’s burning a hole in his pocket. He almost asks to be excused for the bathroom, but the professor is the type to answer that question by saying _why didn’t you go before class_ , and Sherlock does not feel like dealing with that kind of idiocy. He’s out the door the second class is dismissed, however, palming his mobile.

His heart sinks when he sees Darah’s name on his home screen.

_So I may have accidentally forgotten to give V back his phone…I’M SORRY DON’T FREAK OUT OK????_

_he sent me a facebook message asking if I’d ask u to meet him at our café twenty minutes after ur class lets out. i am super done w being ur guys little messenger._

Sherlock can barely type fast enough. _I’ll meet him. SH_

He has to talk himself out of running the whole way there.


	32. Chapter 31

Victor is waiting in a corner table, tapping his fingers against the ceramic of the mug in a distracted pattern. Sherlock watches him for a moment, grateful to have an opportunity to study Victor without the other boy knowing that he’s there. Victor mouths soundless words to himself, practicing what it is he has to say, his brows scrunched together in deep concentration.

In his chest, Sherlock’s heart kicks. It’s painful in all the best and worst ways.

He orders at the counter before approaching Victor’s table, drawing out the calm before the storm. As soon as they talk, as soon as the conversation begins, it’s already almost over. They’ll say their apologies and then walk away, and Sherlock isn’t ready for the end yet. He’d say he’s not sure he ever will be, but he knows that is a bit dramatic. After all, not all endings are permanent or bad—he and John dragged out the denoument of their love affair, and it was terrible. But once it was finally finished, the healing began, and now it’s—good. More than good. Great.

Sherlock isn’t deluding himself. He refuses to do it. Victor is not John—he’s softer than John, and sweeter, in his own way. Painfully earnest. Sometimes it hurts to look at his face because it’s so honest. But all that means is that Victor won’t necessarily react as John did. This conversation today may very well be their last, and that’s awful.

His order comes up, and when he turns around, warm mug in hand, Victor is staring at him from across the room.

Sherlock composes himself. He can do this.

He moves across the room quickly and slides in across from Victor, who offers him a small, tentative smile. “Glad that Darah got a hold of you. And that you could meet me. Hi, by the way.”

“Hello,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t sound unsteady, for all he feels it.

They lapse into silence, both of them looking anywhere but at each other.

It’s already begun, now, and Sherlock feels the inevitable end drawing closer and closer. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I approached Darah several weeks ago to apologise for my behavior at her party. What I did to her, how I acted—it was entirely unacceptable. Darah was kind enough to forgive me, and we’ve been friends for several weeks.”

Victor clears his throat, fidgets in his chair. “Yeah, she mentioned all that last night. During the part of last night I can remember, at least.” He touches his head, rustling around his blond curls. “Still have a bit of a hangover, actually.”

If this were a few months ago, Sherlock could make a joke here, tease Victor—but he’s not sure he has the right anymore. He wishes he did. “I always planned to apologise to you, as well, but I was trying to…” He loses the words. He always has so many things to say unless they require emotional honesty. It’s awful. “I didn’t know where to begin, or how, and I had so much I wanted to tell you—“

“You don’t need to apologise, _I_ need to apologise.” Victor drains the rest of his tea in two hasty gulps, grimacing. “I was so jealous, and petty, and then when I saw you yesterday, I just—God, I thought the worst of you, Sherlock, and I’m so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, truly. I knew better, and I still—“

There’s something about the words and the way they pour out of Victor that slices through Sherlock in a way he has never before experienced. It’s Victor’s damned face, maybe, and the way he doesn’t look afraid to be this vulnerable in front of someone else. Can’t he tell how terrifying this is? How does he go around being so sincere all the time without feeling the inevitable disappointment that comes with that sort of living?

“Please stop,” Sherlock cuts him off. He ignores the wounded look Victor gives him, and placates him by adding, “You’ve nothing to be sorry for. I didn’t leave you with the best impression of myself, and I know that. If you need to hear it, I forgive you. But if I could continue?”

Victor nods, and Sherlock tries to breathe around the rapid beating of his heart.

“I should never have dated you when I did. I should never have kissed you in that club. I know that now.” The words feel like gravel in his throat. Victor is pale across the table. “Not because I didn’t care. I did. I do. But because I—I realise now that I wasn’t wholly in a position to be with someone. I was still too preoccupied with John.”

Sherlock chances a glance at Victor, who is peering down at his empty cup as if it holds all the secrets to the universe. He is stricken in a way that Sherlock has never seen before; it hurts to watch him, and he forces himself to do it, anyway.

“John and I, we worked things out between us.” Victor glances up sharply, and Sherlock goes through what he just said. He could smack himself for the ambiguous wording. “Not like that! We’re—we’re finally friends again. Proper friends, I mean, as we should have been all year. He’s doing well. He’s still seeing that girl of his. Mary.”

These details aren’t important. Victor doesn’t care about any of this. Sherlock musters all his strength and fortifies himself, pushing ahead.

“It’s—difficult, for me, to talk about how I feel. The Holmes are not a sentimental bunch, as a whole. And I’m truly sorry, Victor, for what I did. For letting you think I was more available than I was, for my display at Darah’s party, for the delay in my telling you all of this. I don’t know if there’s an expiration date on honesty, or if it even matters, but—I, I care about you. So much. And I should have shown you that, and I didn’t, and I am sorry.”

Victor’s quiet for a moment, tracing the edge of his saucer with the tip of his finger. Finally, he says, “I’m not sure how to respond.”

 _Forgive me_ , Sherlock thinks. He keeps quiet.

“I really fell for you, you know.” Victor sounds quiet, thoughtful, and he still won’t meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I’ve never felt like that about anyone before.”

The past tense is clear, and it hurts—it hurts so much, Sherlock is never doing this again. He struggles to remain calm. His tea is rapidly becoming stone cold, but he’s afraid if he tries to lift his cup, his hand will shake too hard for him to hold it.

“I—I’m sorry I wasn’t more worthy of it.” It’s the best Sherlock can manage. He can hear the subtle cracks starting to form in his voice. He feels like he may break apart into a million pieces. Emotions are ghastly, and if he could purge them from himself, he would.

“You were. Are. I’m sorry, I don’t know what I’m saying.” Victor shakes his head as if to clear it. “Sherlock, you’re so—singular. You’re the only person like you in existence. Do you think we could be friends? Like we were, before. I could—I mean, we could do something before the end of the school year, if you’d like?”

Friends. Like he and John are now friends—only Sherlock and Victor didn’t have the same relationship prior to taking themselves to the next level. They don’t have as strong or large a foundation on which to fall back. And the word itself feels odious and wrong; Victor isn’t his _friend_ , he doesn’t feel _friendly_ toward Victor.

But if it’s that or nothing—

“All right. Maybe we can…” He scrambles to think of something, _anything_ normal to fill in here. “Go see a film, or something.”

“Right. Right, that sounds good.”

Sherlock pushes away his full tea cup and gets to his feet, feeling shaky on his own limbs. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting—for Victor to fall into his arms, to be told that everything is perfect, and that he no longer needs to feel sorry?

He gives a proprietary wave and heads out the door, his head stuffed full with thoughts and emotions that he does not know how to process. Everything feels like too much; he is overwhelmed. It seems naïve, now, to have hoped that Victor might want to pursue something with him romantically. After all, he broke Victor’s heart, and he did it maliciously. He’s lucky to be forgiven at all.

And they’ll be _friends_. The word rings with a kind of disgust in his head. He wants Victor in his life, of course he does, but not as—friends. It’s just like what happened with John all over again, where they swore up and down that they could pick up where they’d left off in the platonic part of their relationship without making sure they had left the romantic part behind.

It’s—exactly like that, actually.

Sherlock stops in his tracks. He’s making the same mistakes all over again, and it’s _maddening_. He never would have done this if his stupid _emotions_ weren’t clouding his judgment. He has been so determined not to lose Victor that he didn’t stop to think. For him, that’s a _crime_.

Sherlock told himself that time would heal his broken heart for John, and he was mostly right—but there were always little cracks that were never fully filled-in, pieces put back together with shoddy workmanship. He’d ignored them, and they’d festered. Nothing had been better until he and John had both really acknowledged that what they had had was beautiful, but it was over. Only then had Sherlock really allowed himself to move on.

And here he is, still half in love with Victor—and yes, he is, and he can think it all he wants, even if he can’t say it—and keeping it to himself. It’s like a broken bone not properly set. Rebreaking it will hurt, but it will heal better in the long run.

Sherlock turns on his heel and stalks back inside the café, where Victor is staring moodily at his phone. When he looks up and spies Sherlock walking toward him, he drops it on the table.

“Sherlo—“

“I can’t be your friend,” Sherlock says quickly, before he can lose his nerve. “Not yet, at least. Maybe one day, but I can’t see it happening anytime soon.”

Victor’s face crumples, and he sinks back into his chair. “What?”

“I just—I’m not over it. You. I’m not over you, and I can’t imagine I will be for a long time, and I’m doing it again. Can’t you see? I never told John that I was still feeling things, and we both insisted on carrying on like everything was fine, and it wasn’t, and it nearly cost me my friendship with him. And I don’t think ours would survive all that because even when we were ‘just friends,’ we sort of weren’t. So I can’t be your friend yet, no matter how important you are to me. Or maybe _because_ you are important to me. Does that make sense?”

Across the table, Victor is so still. He stares at Sherlock with wide, round eyes. He doesn’t even look like he’s _breathing_ , which is annoying because how can Sherlock read him if he refuses to _do something_?

“Right.” Sherlock sighs. “I’ll be in London this summer, but maybe next year enough time will have passed that—“

Victor moves so suddenly that Sherlock barely has time to process what’s happening before he realises that Victor has leaned across the table and kissed him. Is still kissing him, in fact, lips insistent against Sherlock’s own. Someone catcalls from the corner, and Victor pulls away, flame-faced.

“What,” Sherlock says. He tries to think of something more to add, but the words are stuck inside him.

“I’m mad for you. Absolutely mad. I’ve spent the past few weeks just wandering around like a ghost, and I thought you had to _hate_ me, for not understanding or—or whatever, I don’t know, I was just a miserable fuck about it. Ask Darah if you don’t believe me.”

Sherlock blinks. “I believe you.”

Dropping his head into his hands, Victor barks out a laugh. “Of course you do. I just—I thought if it was friends or nothing, that I’d want to be your friend, but I never thought you’d still want more. And, look, I know we ought to take things slow and discuss our issues and rebuild trust but, frankly, that sounds awful, and I just—I want to kiss you.”

It feels like all the systems in Sherlock’s body rebooted at once and are only now starting to come back online. There’s a feeling growing in the pit of his stomach—it’s excitement, maybe, but it’s also something more. Something deeper.

Victor’s mad for him.

He’s also staring at Sherlock with extreme concern. “Aren’t you going to say something?”

The words are slow to Sherlock’s mouth; he sort of forgot he needed them to communicate at all, that he sometimes needs to explain his thought processes to others. When he breaks into a smile, Victor slumps forward with relief. He looks at Sherlock, and his gaze is so soft, so fond—to think that Sherlock thought he’d never have this again.

He has it again. His insides feel warm and liquid.

“I want to kiss you, too,” he finally manages.

Victor grins in the way that makes his entire face bright and golden. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

As Victor stands, he offers Sherlock his hand. When Sherlock take it, he laces their fingers together, and it feels like he’s finally, finally done something right.


	33. Chapter 33

_Dear John,_

_I’ve attached a photo that Victor and I took of ourselves earlier today. I thought about texting it to you, but I had so much I needed to say. A text would have been inefficient. Although I’m sure you’ll have many questions after viewing this picture, please refrain from asking any stupid ones. Meaning: look at how close we’re standing, the way we’re leaned into each other. I leave you to your deductions._

_And yes, fine, I’ll answer all the inane questions you’re bound to put in your reply._

_This message isn’t about Victor and me, however. It’s about you._

_I’ve crossed off all the names of the people I’ve needed to apologise to, save for one. And now it’s your turn, John Watson, to receive your apology (and to forgive me, if you so choose, but as you so often like to remind me, I have no real control over that)._

_When you decided to go into the army, I was terrified. Not for you—that sounds awful, now that I’ve written it out—but for myself. You were all I had, and I let myself believe that you were all I _could_ have. I thought that if you left and we tried to make it work, I’d be miserable. I know we decided not to pursue a long distance relationship because of me. I won’t apologise for it—at least, not entirely—because it led us to other things that I’m sure we’re both glad to have._

_I will apologise for thinking of myself first, for not considering your needs as well as my own, and for making my decisions based on fear, rather than rationality. I will apologise for putting you on a pedestal and making you more of an idol than a person. You’re the realest person I’ve ever met, and I’m sorry I forgot that._

_I spent so much time this year making you feel guilty for sticking to my plan and respecting my wishes, and I am sorry for that, as well. You were right to do so. Some people are cut out for long distance, but I do not think I am one of them. I like attention, and to have to go without it—well, it wouldn’t have been good for either one of us. Everything is clearer in hindsight._

_I regret that I took for granted our friendship, and that I did not treat you as well as I ought to have done. Please understand that I hold you in the highest regard. You, John Watson, are the most brilliant person I have ever met. I’m sorry I have not been a better friend to you. For a long time, I never expected to be anyone’s friend at all, so I hope you’ll forgive me if there has been a bit of a learning curve._

_You have taught me so much during the course of our friendship, and I hope you know that I value it above all other things. It’s always you, John._

_Your friend,  
Sherlock Holmes_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S OVER IT'S OVER IT'S OVER IT'S OVER IT'S OVER
> 
> i promised myself last year on my birthday that i would finish ttp before this year's birthday, and i did it! barely, but hey, BARELY STILL COUNTS.
> 
> many, many thanks to all those who stuck with this throughout the duration of the story. i know there has been much viclock v. johnlock debate, and all i can tell you is: i love johnlock like it's going out of a style. my goal has always been to create a realistic portrait of growing and dating and LIFE. that means that there are not always easy pathways to becoming who we become, and to being with who we love. i wanted victor to feel real, and i wanted his relationship with sherlock to be weighty and meaningful, not just an obstacle to be overcome. the fact that y'all are constantly asking BUT WAIT THO WHO IS SHERLOCK GONNA END UP WITH??? makes me feel like i did that job.
> 
> but, seriously, y'all. i'm a johnlock girl, and there's at least one more sequel to this story. don't worry your pretty little heads.
> 
> so, here we are. ttp is over. the sequel is still unnamed and unwritten, and it will be that way for a while. i've too much going on to commit myself to another fic at the moment (not matter how much i would LIKE to do so). keep an eye on this space--i'll probably send out an update through this story when i start to post the next installment. i'm hoping to get to it by late summer/early fall. we'll see.
> 
> thanks be to sureaintmebabe, my wonderful dear. i love you so very much, friend, and i am eternally grateful for your patience will all my whiny emails. hahaaha.
> 
> if you'd like to talk to me directly, i am on [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com). i post a lot about johnlock, veronica mars, stucky, and my feelings. hooray!
> 
> y'all are great. much love to you.


	34. Update

Just so everyone knows, the final part of this series is now being posted! Read it [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6788050/chapters/15510301). :)

Thanks all! Hope you enjoy it. 

\--Archie

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends and readers! :)
> 
> Hope you've enjoyed the first part of the sequel. As always, thanks to the lovely sureaintmebabe for looking over this and giving me her thoughts.
> 
> A few notes:  
> 1\. I will be updating every Sunday  
> 2\. I am not sure how long this will be, but I imagine it will be longer than "At Seventeen." What I have planned for the story (which is pretty much all of it) follows Sherlock's career at Cambridge.  
> 3\. I've never actually written a sequel before and am a bit terrified. MEEP.  
> 4\. Anyone have a cool idea for a title for the series? "At Seventeen 'verse" lacks a certain pizzazz, I think. 
> 
> Please feel free to leave questions/comments. I will do my best to respond to all of them! :) Or come say hell on [tumblr](http://archipelagowritesthings.tumblr.com)!
> 
> Thanks again, everyone! Hope you're as excited for the sequel as I am!
> 
> <3archie


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